


No One Knows What A Chimera Is

by BettyBufon



Category: Spies Are Forever - Talkfine/Tin Can Brothers
Genre: 20k words, Aftermath of Torture, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bad Cooking, Canon-Typical Violence, Cooking, Cooking Lessons, Domestic, Domestic Fluff, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Eventual Happy Ending, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Multi, Torture, Wordcount: Over 20.000
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-18
Updated: 2019-12-16
Packaged: 2020-09-14 20:16:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 16
Words: 26,703
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20282098
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BettyBufon/pseuds/BettyBufon
Summary: On a solo mission, Curt gets captured by a mysterious paramilitary group in Russia. There, he encounters an old friend, allegedly working the same case as him. It seems the two spies may be working this mission together, after all. But how far must he go to protect Owen's deep cover?





	1. Interrogation

I was being sloppy, I'll admit that. As I rounded the corner, I didn't mask my footsteps as well as I should have. Didn't mask them at all, if I'm being honest. As I recall, I all-but stomped around the rest of the compound, too, but that wasn't my fault. If I hadn't been so lost-in-thought, I wouldn't have messed up. If I hadn't been thinking- If I hadn't been thinking about Owen. This had become an ongoing joke between us over the past few months.  
How we distracted one another. How our agencies often paired the same genders together on field missions, because something like this was never supposed to happen. My heart fluttered when I thought about him, and I was certain people could hear the drumbeat everytime he entered the room. I wondered if someone had found out, and that was why I hadn't heard from him in three months.

I ran directly into a group of guards, and my stomach twisted. They didn't seem surprised to see me, and must have heard me coming. I cursed. One of them raised his gun, as I shakily reached for mine-  
And someone clocked me over the back of the head.  
  
I didn't even have time to put up a fight.

***

I wake up, my head on my chest, slouched over. My hands are above my head, and I'm- I glance up, and immediately start struggling. I'm bound by the wrists to a length of chain, suspended from the ceiling. My feet still touch the ground, barely, and I try, unsuccessfully, to tear my way out. The rope is too tight around me, and I'm certain I've given myself rope burn. As I writhe, I realise there's something in my mouth.  
Coarse, fuzzy, uncomfortable. I push at it with my tongue, but only succeed in pushing it deeper. I choke on the wad of fabric, and my nose wrinkles. I desperately hope it's not a sock, or at least, a used one.  
The reason I can't remove the gag becomes instantly clear. There's a second strip of fabric tied around my mouth to hold it in place, and it digs into my cheeks painfully. My eyes water, and I stop my struggles instantly, and become impossibly still. My throat feels clogged up, and I realise I could choke to death if someone doesn't return for me soon.  
Feeling vulnerable, I cease all resistance, and let my arms go slack. Whoever wanted me to be silent has done their job too well. As I dangle here, something else occurs to me. They haven't blindfolded me. They wanted me to see, but not talk.  
Something niggles at the back of my mind, but I can't quite place it. I search for answers, but the room around me is too dark to see anything-

Until the spotlight flickers on. I cringe away from it, and a burst of laboured, tight air escapes my nose. I blink, rapidly, and try not to groan. Footsteps approach from the darkness. One, two, three...  
A pair of boots appear in front of me. Carefully, as my eyes continue to adjust, I raise my gaze to look at my captor. Grey trousers- grey *jumpsuit*- and a long, dark moustache. His hair has grown considerably, in fact, and my eyes widen.

He's wearing the same uniform as the Russian sect, unrecognisable to some, perhaps. But he is, undoubtedly, Owen.  
My Owen.

He puts a finger to his lips, and raises an eyebrow. Blood roars in my ears, but I nod, silently. I focus on breathing through my nose, suddenly more aware of my damp eyes, and give another involuntary, strangled note.  
Owen's eyes flash another warning, but he sets to work immediately. He withdraws a penknife from his pocket, and cuts the gag away. With a surprising tenderness, he pulls the gauze out of my mouth, and I splutter for a moment, but fight hard to keep quiet.  
I catch my breath, in long, shallow gasps, and he gives me the tiniest fraction of a smile.

"You're alive," I whisper reverently. He nods, once, and places both hands on the back of my neck. I close my eyes as he rests his forehead against mine, and presses his lips to my lips. The merest ghost of a kiss.  
I shiver. I want more, but there's a sense of urgency that drives me to think faster. "Hurry up and get me out of here," I breathe into him, and he pulls away.

"I'm afraid it's not that simple, Mega," he says in a heavy Russian accent. I raise my eyebrows, and see that he's deadly serious. I resist the urge to laugh, and instead flex my hands above me.  
"You must have been practicing," I say, with a smile. "You don't sound as fake as usual."  
He grits his teeth, and casts a glance at the door behind him."My Russian has always been better than yours," he says. "That's why-"  
"They assigned us the same mission," I realise. "Together again."

He shakes his head, bemused. "I've been undercover for months, Mega. But, the Americans were always slow on the uptake."  
I stay silent.  
His gaze softens, and he reaches for me again. Without thinking, he tucks a strand of hair behind my ear, then comes to his senses, and freezes.

"I've missed you," I breathe, not looking for an explanation, but he gives one anyway.  
"I couldn't blow my cover," he whispers back. "And, were you any other American spy, I might have had to kill you."  


I recoil slightly. "Would you really?"  
The look in his eyes makes my heart skip a beat.

"Plausible deniability," he says, softly, as he checks the ropes around my wrists. He seems satisfied- and satisfied with his answer, too, because he doesn't seem set to elaborate on it. I stare at him, wide-eyed and uncomprehending, and he inclines his head towards me.  
"We're allies, so we're supposed to avoid killing each other."

I tilt my head. "Obviously."

"But sometimes, it can't be avoided. If another spy, even an ally, threatens to compromise my mission... yes, I'll kill him." Owen is behind me now. I strain my neck to see him, but it's impossible in the darkness. "Especially, my dear, when he's as reckless as you are."  
I can't help but shudder as he says that. He must be close to me; breath on my neck, and I shut my eyes.

"So, remind me," I say, and lean backwards towards him. "Why are you keeping me around?"

He chuckles, a dangerous sound that comes from the back of his throat, and places his hands on my waist. "Well, personal history does have its benefits, Mega." He sways me slightly, and the chains clink against each other. The floor is solid, shiny concrete, and I slide around as I find my footing. "Besides, I know I can count on you to do me a favour." He keeps his voice neutral, but a slight tremor runs through his hand.

My breath hitches. "What kind of favour?"

Before he can answer, the door creaks open, with a floor of light. Two figures stand in the doorway, both in the same grey uniforms as Owen. Rather than unhand me, he moves his hand up to my jaw, and forces me to look upwards.

"He's awake!" The first guard says in Russian. Then he rushes though something else I can't fully decipher. Something about a "... little treat."  
The other gives him a crooked smile, but Owen raises a hand to stop them.

"No. This one's mine," he barks in Russian. The others exchange a nasty grin as he begins to search me. He's efficient, and to the point- although I notice he lingers for a while between my thighs. For my benefit?  
No.  
Just for show.

It suddenly strikes me what Owen's 'favour' might be, and I grimace as he continues to manhandle me. I begin to sift through information in my head, searching for something harmless enough to tell him, but enough to be convincing.

"Who are you people?" I ask, for effect, and he yanks me backwards. My head is thrown back against the chains that hold me, and I close my eyes.  
"Don't pretend you don't know," Owen says, with a coarse laugh. He's rough, and rips my jacket off me before I can protest.  
  
He pulls the sleeves off, and I realise, belatedly, that he's going at the remnants with the penknife. He cuts away the hidden seams in the side. Within it is a secret pocket, and he examines the contents with interest.  
"An American!" Owen exclaims, like this is new information to him, and hands them my ID. They cackle in unison. "Clumsy," he says, pointing the knife at me now. I move to back away, but he grips the front of my shirt, and fixes me with a hungry expression. I swallow. For a moment, it's like we're alone in the room again. He pushes me away, and I sway slightly, but dig my heel into the ground.

"See if you can make him squeal," the taller guard says. "But if you lose your stomach again-"  
"I won't," Owen says cooly, and answers my frozen expression with a determined one.  
The guard laughs. "We'll be outside." The door slams behind them, and I can hear their muffled sneers ringing through the door.

I look at Owen. "Again?" I ask, barely audible.  
He retreats into himself.  
"A month ago, I had a... botched interrogation," he can't meet my eyes. "They finished it for me."

I shift my weight, and process this. From what I can guess of Owen's persona within the group, he certainly wouldn't have infiltrated them hoping to become chief torturer. I remember the CIA sent someone in before me- possibly because they knew about Owen- and I wonder if he was the poor soul they interrogated. If he was captured, though, Cynthia never said. I set my jaw. Her and I will have much to discuss.

"It's a test," I realise. "I'm a test. One you can't fail."  
Owen tenses, but nods. "I need you to tell me something. Enough that they trust me, and then I can end this whole operation before it gets out."  
I brace myself. I'm still wondering what information I can give up- namely, weighing up how much Cynthia will want to kill me afterwards. I nod.  
  
"You'd better give me some good scars, so I have a good excuse for the boss." I try to keep my voice light, but my body won't cooperate. My leg quakes.  
When Owen sees this, he hesitates. I can see the doubt in his eyes, but I'm already beginning to tire.  
"Just get it over with," I grunt. "I don't think I can feel my arms." The joke rings hollow, and I twist my bound hands with a shaky sigh.  
  
He contemplates this for a moment. Really thinks about it. Ensures he gives it a moment's thought before he punches me, squarely, on the bicep.  
I tense, and manage a yelp of surprise, but it won't be enough. Every instinct, everything about my training, is telling me not to give in. It will take some real effort to convincingly break.  
"Enough foreplay," Owen says. The fake accent rings out, unnaturally loud compared to the intimacy of before. "Why did the Americans send you? What do you know?"  
  
"No one sent me."  
  
Before I can process the question, the words have already escaped my lips.  
He gives me a surprised sort of look, and chuckles. "Is that how you want to play this?"  
  
I relax somewhat (as much as the situation allows for), and fall back into the familiar patterns instilled in me during training. I rattle off excuses quickly. "I'm an American citizen. I was visiting my grandma in Stalingrad. I don't know how I got here, but-"  
"- Lies, lies, and lies," Owen shouts over me. "You expect me to believe you just happened to wander into our facility?"  
"Ask the guards," I spit back, "I was making quite a racket on the way in. I knew I was lost, and-"  
"And you kept walking, instead of turning round and leaving, like a sensible boy," he says.  
"Like I said. I was lost."  
  
"Citizen, grandmother, Stalingrad," his intonation is mocking, and he braces his hand on the ropes above me, casually. "Tell me something true."  
"Alright," I steel myself. "I was walking through your delightful concrete compound upstairs, and thought- why don't I get myself tortured? That might be a good way to pass the ti-"  
A yelp escapes my lips, and I try, unsuccessfully, to tug my fingers out of Owen's grasp. His grip is like a vice, and I whimper as he forces my forefinger back, as far as it will go.  
"A good way to pass the time," he muses. "It might be. Are a few broken fingers-" he pushes the first back even further, and I gasp. "- Worth it?"  
  
My eyes sting. I'm furious at how quickly they betrayed me, but I can't shed the first layer of disguise yet. It's tempting, though. The spy in me is much more impervious to torture; with or without working fingers.  
"I'm no spy," I insist, but my voice wavers. "Ahhh-!"  
There's a crack as it snaps back, impossibly far, and my right arm floods with warm, red-hot tendrils of pain. "Hahhh..." I hiss, and jerk away from Owen, but he holds me in place, round the middle. I turn my head away from him, and my face burns as a few disobedient tears run down my face. I wish I could swat them away. "No? What are you?" He says, conversationally, as he takes hold of another finger, and flexes it experimentally.  
  
"The name's Curt," I give him what's supposed to be a winning smile, but it comes out as a grimace.  
"I know; I saw the ID." A gleam comes into his eyes, and he moves closer to me. "And innocent American citizens always sew sensitive information into their clothes, do they?" He's already pushing the next finger back, and my heart stutters.  
"It's the best way to prevent it being stolen," I groan. "I want to talk to the embassy."  
  
He tuts. "You can do better than that."  
  
My middle finger puts up a little more resistance than the first, and I writhe.  
Just get it over with!  
  
"I want to talk to the embassy..."  
_ Crack._  
  
I wince. "I want to talk to the embassy-"  
_Pop._  
  
"I want to talk to the EMBASSY-!"  
_Crunch._  
  
I shriek, as my finger finally shatters, and my whole body spasms. It's involuntary, like being electrocuted, and I hear my own screams echoed off the walls back to me, like a stranger said them.

My heart is racing, and I can feel the beat in my legs, urging me to run. My feet grow heavy, and my head spins. I feel Owen's fingers on the back of my head, and a solitary whimper escapes my lips.

"There we are, Mr Mega," he coos, and strokes my head slowly. "That's loosened you up a little."

My stomach stirs as it drip-feeds me conflicting emotions. The broken fingers have left some residual static in my brain, and I can't quite see through the fuzz. Remember. Citizen. Not guilty. Embassy... Embassy! I cling to it, and roll the word around in my mouth.

"Embassy," I hiss, unconvincingly.  
"Yes, yes..." Owen's fingers feel so good in my hair. Focus. Focus. He's saying something else, and I hum in agreement. "Enough about the embassy. Why don't we talk about your agency, instead?" His other hand is on my back, and he skims his fingers along my back, coaxing an answer out of me.  
"Agency?" The final threads of my facade slip away, and I open my eyes.  
"Yes. Your handlers," he says, gently. "CIA? NSA? Freelance, perhaps?" He chuckles. "Which may be the case. Who would hire _you__?"_  
  
I flex my shoulders, and flinch as it reawakens the pain from my hand. "I don't know what you're talking about," I smile weakly.  
He chuckles darkly. "In that case, Mr Mega, we could be here for a long time."  
I laugh back, trying to embody that brash, Mega confidence. "Well, I've cleared up my schedule. Nowhere else to go." My hand throbs as I speak, but I can get through this.  
He bares his teeth, and sets to work unbuttoning my shirt. "You're in good hands," he whispers, without a tinge of the Russian accent. "Trust me," he kisses the side of my neck, twice.  
I shiver, give a slight moan, and nod. He grins against my neck, and nips at the skin. He pulls away, and purses his lips. I brace myself for whatever's coming. Owen prowls around me, like a cat with a mouse.  
"Who are you with?" He repeats his earlier question, and I manage a shrug.  
"Does it matter?"  
"CIA, FBI, NSA-?" "The FBI are cops," I snort. And NSA field agents are-"  
"Clumsy?" He supplies. "A bit like you, then-" "Don't insult me," I grunt. He's watching me, expectant, so I continue. "CIA, of course."  
  
A grin plays at the sides of his face. "The CIA," he says, and places a hand on my chest. "What do they know?" He uses his knife to cut through the sleeves of my shirt. Oh, come on.  
Still frowning from the destruction of my shirt, I shrug. "Well, what do *I* know?" I ask. "Regardless, I didn't have the chance to report back. They know nothing." "That's not what the last American said."  
  
So it's true.  
  
My stomach plummets. "The last...?"  
He ignores my question, and tears off most of my shirt in one swift motion. I wince as the remains of the right sleeve get caught on my wrist, and he unbuttons it angrily, and keeps the knife in his hand dangerously close. "I grow impatient, Mega."  
I settle my weight on my legs, slowly. "Whatever they knew hasn't been shared with me."  
"We'll see." His eyes are thunderous.  
The glint of metal is so fast, I barely register it.  
"Aaaaaah-"  
The sound explodes out of me, and my breaths come hard, and fast. I'm not sure what happened until I feel the warmth spreading from my left thigh, and realise he must have stabbed me. I inhale sharply, and try to control my breathing, but I can't. I'm hyperventilating now.  
Owen takes my face in his hands, and presses his cheek against mine, briefly.  
  
"Hold still," he breathes in my ear, and I make a surprised sort of hiccough.  
Without skipping a beat, he steps away from me, and his eyes take on a predatory look. He switches in and out of character much faster than me. A exhale with painful slowness. He looks me up and down, appraising, and raises the knife in one hand.  
"I'll bleed out," I say, almost hopefully.  
"Not if you co-operate. Tell me what they know, and we can handle it."  
"Uhh..." I shift all my weight onto my right leg, and a burst of air escapes me. I remember his command to hold still, but my leg is shaking so violently that it effects my torso, too. I whisper-moan. "No, thank you," I say, with a bravery I do not feel.  
  
He tuts, and presses the flat end of the knife against my back. "You can make this easier for yourself," he warns, as he stands directly in front of me. His face is pressed close to mine, and his breath falls on my neck.  
I watch him with half-closed eyes, as confidential information swirls round my head. I have no problem telling it to Owen; I know he will filter it as necessary, but I know the guards outside can hear everything.  
  
"You're just going to kill me anyway. Why not get on with it?"  
"Oh, yes. Eventually," He presses the knife into the small of my back, and steadily walks around me. "But first, we like to have a little fun."  
With the weight of my body concentrated on just one leg, it threatens to buckle beneath me. I move to gather more weight by my hands, but my broken fingers stop me. Shit.  
  
"Hnnng..."  
The knife doesn't go deep, but Owen is sure to drag it, shallowly, along the length of my spine. Not enough for lasting damage, but enough for-  
"Haagh!" I choke, as he pushes his fingernails into my shoulder blades. My legs choose that moment to give out, and I find myself swinging, and screaming, from my injured hand. I scramble to my feet, which only succeeds in making both injuries throb. Either one is unbearable.

"Stop," I sob, "Please stop."  
Owen places the knife against my collarbone. I can't struggle without making anything hurt more, so I freeze. My body screams in pain.  
"I need to rest," I pant, and he strokes my collar gently with the blade. I spasm, attempt to jerk away, because I can't take anymore pain right now. "Please," I hiss. "You beg quite prettily, Mr Mega, but unless the next words out of your mouth are my information, then I'm afraid your suffering will be quite prolonged."  
  
"Uh..."  
There's a moment where I think I might outlast him. But then my leg twitches again, and, I reason, what the hell. I've done enough. I can't support my own weight. Cynthia can't get on my back for this- not without re-opening a substantial wound. I-  
  
"Bombs," I gasp, "That's all I know. They think you're using this facility to store bombs."  
This is apparently news to Owen, so I'm not sure if it's correct or not. But, it must be enough, for now, because he puts the knife away, and strokes my uninjured arm slowly. I close my eyes at the contact, and exhale softly.  
"Owen," I moan, and he covers my mouth with his hand. He casts a covert look towards the door. "Let me down..." I whisper.  
  
"I'll be back," he kisses my forehead. "Try and stay alive 'til then."  
  
I try to watch him go, I really do. But there's a heavyness to my eyelids that cannot be ignored.  
I pass out.  
  
When I come to, I've been untied, my leg has been bandaged, and there are bindings running around my back. My two broken fingers also seem to have been attended to, and are covered in white gauze, but, regardless, they are still my most painful injuries. I curl into the foetal position, on my right side, to avoid inflaming my leg.  
I fall into troubled sleep, comforted by the knowledge that, at least, when I reawake, we'll be back in American custody.


	2. Interlude

I did not wake up in American custody. I didn't even wake up in America. I woke up in the same room as before, bloodstains too close for comfort on the floor, although someone had gone to the trouble of removing my bloodstained shirt rags.

I felt dizzy, but I saw a cup of water on the floor beside me. I downed it, and felt slightly better. It seemed Owen's mission would take longer than I anticipated. I closed my eyes, and went back to sleep.

***

It's been two days since Owen tortured me, but no one else has really touched me since. A medic came in yesterday to check on my wounds, and seemed satisfied. Whether that means I'm getting sicker or getting better, I can't tell. The only oddity came when another man, who was out of uniform, and wearing a dark shirt and cargo pants, entered the room. He swayed on the spot, drunken, up to no good, but someone pulled him out of there with a grunt. "We're saving him for-" the door slammed. I frowned.

Whatever else is going on in this bunker, it appears that they take each other's property seriously.

I contemplate this. I still feel safe in Owen's hands, but I'm frustrated I can't do more from here. I wonder if he stabbed my leg on purpose, to stop me from intervening. It won't do any lasting damage, but I won't be able to escape on it. He's sending me a clear message.  
'Stop. Behave yourself. Be a good little captive.'

I sigh.

Aside from my fingers, the other wounds he inflicted have stopped hurting, although I can't help but wonder what else might be coming. I've been in near-solitary confinement, in the darkness, for two days. If he thinks this is better than before, he's wrong. I long for his touch.

I've merely guessed at the passage of time, but, since I've been brought six, slightly different meals- which I assume are breakfast, lunch then dinner, twice over- I'm hoping it's only two days. The lack of stimulus is killing me.

I wonder what he could possibly be doing with the group. I hope interrogating me was the final straw he needed to ingratiate himself, because I don't want to spend another three months waiting for him to crack the case- assuming the gang doesn't slaughter me, first. My presence definitely provides an impetus for him to get a shift on, although, if I'm being fed, I assume I'm being kept alive for other reasons.

Back home, the CIA don't always bother with enhanced interrogation, when they can just put someone in solitary. I've seen men beg to be beaten, and spat at by their guards, just for something to do- "just for something real". I wonder if that's going to happen to me- although there's a difference between being tortured by a stranger, and being handled by Owen. With him, everything is like a dance. You spin, he leads. He seems to have a good gauge on what he's doing, and I wonder where be learned it from.

Perhaps I don't want to know.

I hug my knees to my chest, and wait.


	3. The Unspeakable

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is mostly fluff, but they discuss some heavy stuff before and after that, so beware.

Owen is wearing jeans today, which strikes me as odd. A shirt, too. A memory niggles at the back of my mind, as I recall the man who walked in two days ago. Not the medic, not someone with a plate of food. Not a guard, either.

"What did that man want?" I ask. He gives me a blank stare. "There was another man who was out of uniform," I amend, and he hesitates.

"Ah," He keels down beside me, and doesn't quite meet my eyes. "It hardly matters now," he whispers, but I frown. I'm still calculating, working it out.

"The guards pulled him out... They said something strange. That they were saving me for... You, I assume. For what? For-?" My eyes widen. "Christ, Owen, do they...?" I can't say it. "Do _you_...?" My face feels flushed. "Force people," I finish, in a strained whisper.

He places a hand on my cheek, and grimaces. "It's a common interrogation tactic here," he whispers, with surprising calm. "But I wouldn't hurt you-"

Unbidden, I give a low growl, and scramble backwards, away from him. Images flash through my mind, terrible imaginations, as I remember what the guards said on day one.  
_ 'A botched interrogation' ... 'If you lose your stomach again.'_  
I stare at him, and begin to shiver violently.

"Who else?" I demand, and my voice jumps in time with my heart. "Who else?!"

His eyes fill with concern, and he slides over to me, and takes hold of my wrists with both hands. I move to pull away, but my arms feel heavy, frozen at my side. Solidified. He seems surprised that this has shaken me so much.

"Listen, love..." His voice is a low hum, as he scoots closer. He peers low, to look into my eyes. "Nothing happened. The interrogation failed because... I refused to follow through. I lose my cool with anyone else," he gives me a shy smile, and I almost feel the urge to laugh.

Laugh? What the hell's wrong with me? I fight the urge to spite him. ('Yeah, well, I'm glad I give you the confidence to torture people,') but only succeed in drowning one snippy remark. The other slips through.

"I guess you just seemed pretty convincing," I exhale, and hold up my broken fingers. Owen looks away.

"I'm sorry."

"Don't apologise yet," I close my eyes. "You've got to get us out of here, first."

He blinks, and looks around the dungeon. For a moment, he seemed to have forgotten where we were.

"Yes," he says, slowly, "But you don't need to do anything you don't want to-"

"The hell I don't," I say, and there's a wounded look in his eyes. I don't want to snap at him, but- "I don't need the Owen who bullshits me right now. Don't try to make me feel better. Just promise me I will, when we make it out of here."

He inhales, slowly. "Curt. I'm not going to do anything you're uncomfortable with-"

_ Uncomfortable?_ This goes beyond mere discomfort. I shake my head.

"So we make a plan," I say, robotically. "Like Cynthia always says."

Owen considers this. "Is this when she's berating you about teamwork?"

"You know it," I say, with the flicker of a smile. I'm suddenly aware that we're truly alone for the first time in months. I scoot closer to him. "Hold me," I whisper, and rest my head on his chest without waiting for an answer.

Strong arms wrap around me, and I feel his chin rest across the top of my head. One hand slides down to the small of my back, and he begins rubbing tiny circles there with the back of his knuckles. It's a welcome gesture, until-

I flinch, and he jumps back from me in surprise. The cut on my back is inflamed, and I try to smile through it, but Owen realises immediately.

"Shit," he whispers. "I completely forgot."

I push my shoulders back, which eases the pain somewhat. "You did what you had to do."

He looks down, and examines his hands. There's a long, jagged scar on the back of one, from where he once got caught in barbed wire. I was with him at the time, and I remember it well. It was the night of our first kiss.

Gingerly, I reach for his hand with my left, and he covers it with both of his. His fingers trace mine in sweeping, meandering paths, before moving to my wrist. It tickles, and I bite back a laugh.

"You always were ticklish," he whispers, as he brings my hand to his lips. He kisses the back of my palm, ever so gentle, and my breathing falters. I sit still, like I'm observing a wild deer, not wanting to scare it off.

His lips move gently up my forearm, and he turns this way and that, filling in my inner arm with little kisses. Once he reaches the crook of my elbow, he plants one in the centre of it, then continues his passage upwards. I become acutely aware of my breathing, and wind my fingers into Owen's hair. He almost seems to have forgotten I'm there.

"I worship your arms," he explains, in a sort of reverie. "I've worshipped them every day for six years."

Six years. Is that really all the time we've known each other? I feel like I've known him all my life. I catch my breath, surprised, as he gently bites me.

"Owen..." I whisper, and he grips my bicep in one hand, and bites me more firmly. I close my eyes, and he moves further up. When he reaches my shoulder, I exhale, as his teeth sink into soft flesh. He moves back into kissing, and moves up, up up along my neck. I smile when he gets to my jaw, and he moves along slowly, before kissing my lips. I pull away. "Do that again tomorrow, and we'll have no trouble," I say.

The softest snort of laughter. He gives me those sad, doe eyes. "Remember me like this," he says, and kisses my lips gently. I kiss back, and move to pull his limbs tighter around me, like a cocoon.

"Always," I whisper, and move to kiss him again. Kissing turns back to talking, and I'm only vaguely aware that the guards outside think something different is happening right now. I try to still the beat of my heart, and coax Owen back into discussing what I really don't want to.

He frowns, but agrees, and disentangles himself from me. Throughout our discussion, he still holds my hand gently.

I fix my eyes on the wall behind him; one particular spot that has a metal hook embedded within it. On day one, a guard warned me, if I didn't cooperate, I would be chained to it. The information that I told Owen seemed to have spared me from that, for now, but I wonder how quickly that will change. Our plan doesn't involve me giving up any more information.

It's a long time before Owen finally lets go of me. He kisses my face one last time, and stands up, unsteadily. He considers me for a moment, and then slaps himself on the face, both sides, repeatedly.

"What are you doing-?" I ask, and he points to his cheeks by way of explanation, as a deep flush comes over them. He reaches to adjust his fly, so it's half unzipped.

"I'm making it look like I just fucked you," he whispers, and quickly leaves the room. Before the door closes, I see him pause to close his trousers again, and hear a roar of approval from outside. The warm, syrupy feeling slips away, and is replaced by steely dread.

I hug my legs, and a wave of nausea overtakes me. I count down, slowly, from ten, and it subsides somewhat. Still, I crawl closer to the toilet, just in case.

I think of Owen, outside, alone, with a pack of sociopaths.

He has to bring these people down. He has to. And I have to help him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've just realised I said this chapter would have fluff in it & then featured some biting


	4. Fight Or Flight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is the most graphic chapter. Check archive warnings & skip it if necessary.

"Good morning, Mr Mega."

I glance up. Today, Owen has an audience of three. One of them drags a large box into the room, and I try not to let my eyes linger on it.

"You've been quite uncooperative," Owen says, "But that's going to change."

I force a smile. "Aren't you going to introduce us?" My gaze flits to the three men beside him, and he offers me a lopsided smirk. Shit.

"Don't worry, Mr Mega; you are going to get very well acquainted, very soon."

I swallow. He really knows how to put on a good show. But, so do I.

I raise my chin up. "Go to hell."

Owen exhales softly. Laughter. "That's the idea. And we're going to take you there." As he talks, the man beside him removes his jacket. Two of the men beside him are in uniform, but this one... I examine him.

If he's out of uniform, it probably means one thing.

My heart tries to escape my chest. I make eye contact with Owen, who looks away. Perhaps I should have examined the box, after all.

"We had such fun yesterday," Owen prefaces, "That I brought some friends along. I hope you don't mind."

I focus on breathing, and hope that the quick rise and fall of my chest isn't too obvious.

"Of course not," I whisper, and I see his cronies laughing.

"Good," he says. "Shall we begin?"

I make a small, noncommittal noise.

"Hmm. On your knees," Owen says, to much amusement behind him.

I smile serenely, and remain cross-legged on the floor.

"Fine," he says, and gestures to the others. "Undress him."

They cross the room before I can move away, and I grunt. "I-"

"Hush," one says, as they take my arms. They force me to my feet, and I struggle, but they remove my trousers with surprising ease.

They're well-practised, I realise, and grimace. They remove my shirt next, the nasty prison uniform I've been wearing for three days, and I shriek and yell in protest when one of them reaches for the band of my underwear.

"It's alright," Owen assures them, and gestures for them to withdraw before I can kick one in the face. The effort has already knackered my leg, though, and I sink to the floor, bracing myself on my hands.

"Very good," Owen says, "Stay like that."

I'm on my hands and knees, and have to make an effort to look up at his face, so I don't. If I had a choice, I would move, but I can't. The only other option open to me is lying, facedown, on the floor, and I don't like that choice. I shake my head. "Stay away from me," I offer a barely disguised growl.

"Certainly. Just tell me where the Americans have put their own bombs, and we can part as friends."

I try to build the right mental walls. We agreed to this; I've been forewarned. I can survive this. I will survive this. Owen has a plan. He just needs to establish their trust. He just needs me to do this. I take a deep breath, and slowly raise my eyes to meet his.

"I don't think I will." I whisper.

Owen smirks. "I was hoping you might say that."

Before I know it, he's behind me, and I fix my gaze far ahead of me. There's that wall hook. Somewhere above me is probably the ceiling hook. There's that mysterious box-

_Avoid looking at the other men in the room. Avoid eye contact. Avoid_\- Owen is kneeling behind me, over me. I shudder, and begin to feel dizzy. I'm excited, but also confused. There's a rush of blood elsewhere, too, and, on my left hand, my fingers curl slightly. I exhale shakily. That was one thing I forgot to discuss- whether I should fight to maintain an erection. I can't tell if it will make things better or worse for him, but I'm assuming I should try not to... Which I thought would be easy, until now. Heat rises in my face.

Owen places one hand on the back of my thigh, in what is probably intended as a reassuring gesture. It's the uninjured leg, but I suddenly remember the injury, and hope it will hold out. It has to.

I'm vaguely aware of the clink of a belt buckle being undone behind me. I steady myself, still considering the erection question, but unable to find an answer. It's only going to get more difficult to think. I exhale.

A sort of numbness takes over me, and I let Owen strip me without any resistance. The other people in the room become less of a problem, but only because I'm less aware of them. I care about, and don't care about their presence, at the same time.

"Uh..." I grit my teeth. Build a narrative in my head, like a chant. Owen has entered me many times, this is no different-

"Agh!"

\- except, Owen hasn't used lube this time, because he can't. Because that would be suspicious. Because I'm meant to suffer. Because-

"Hnnng..." I can't breathe. My heart is quivering on a string. Yet, still-

Flight or fight. I don't know many men who get turned on when they're fighting, aside from, perhaps, Owen, but that could just be when he's fighting me. In fact, I hope that's the case.

Owen pushes deeper. I moan.

I try to recall my training around this. Most of it revolved, as usual, around a man and a woman, but they at least had the foresight to brief us on being the victim, too. Fight or flight. They still assumed that a female agent might take advantage of us, so there was some mention of it. But I was in a room with a bunch of idiots, and they started snickering when the hypothetical interrogator used her body to manipulate them. '_Perks of the job,'_ someone said, to much laughter.

Owen doesn't talk much. There's a confident, brutish moaning, but I suppose that he, too, must want this over with as soon as possible. I wonder if he's retreated into his mind, just like I have-

_Cynthia congratulated me on being the only guy there who wasn't an idiot, for once. I shrugged. Tried to be nonchalant. But that was perhaps the only day she didn't give me any shit-_

"Ahhhhhhhh!" My screams hit differently. I exhale. No. No. No.

I gasp, and pant for breath. I can't really feel the pain, but I know it'll hit me later. Owen gets faster, and I whimper.

'_If your mind and your body are saying something different, it only matters what your mind says'._ But what is my mind saying? Am I only turned on because it's Owen? Does that matter? Do I want this? I agreed to it in advance, but that doesn't matter. '_Consent can be withdrawn at any time'._ I close my eyes. Barbara's consent lectures can't help me right now. I doubt anyone could anticipate a situation like this. Being fake raped, but not really. My breath catches in my mouth, and my arms grow tired. The room sways back and forth rhythmically. _Why. Why. Why._ I don't process the reason.

There's laughter from the front of the room, but my vision is fucked up. Water. Tears. No, water. Just water. You're fine. I'm fine. I'm...

I sob.

I don't know when Vladek stepped forwards, but he's demanding. I don't hear the words so much as feel them. His hands are sudden, grabbing at my face. No. No. No.

He forces my head up, yet still, I keep my jaw firmly shut. No, no, please no. No.

I hear more laughter ripple around me. Around me? That means-

Owen's movements have stilled, but he's still inside me. I grunt. My arms are screaming beneath me, complaining.

"Go on, Vladek. He won't bite... I assume," Owen says. "Will you, Mega?"

He strokes my hair, and I close my eyes briefly at the gesture. I can't speak. I can barely think. Part of me knows I can't retort- can't open my mouth- for a reason, but I'm unable to formulate even a single thought.

Owen pushes himself to the hilt, and I want to scream, I need to scream, but I can only grunt. My heart is in my mouth, which is a problem, as I suspect something else will occupy it very soon. I exhale through my nose. My chest is tight, and my pulse is deafening. Owen is across my back now, leaning over.

"Open your mouth," Owen hisses in my ear.

With much effort, I shake my head. My airways are already constricted. What happens if-?

Vladek gets tired of waiting, and holds my nose shut. I'm jerked forwards into his hand, and open my mouth to splutter in indignation. I'd have to, sooner or later, so I could breathe. But, once I've done that-

I close my eyes again. I don't want to look at Vladek. Or his cock. I've been avoiding it all this time, but I can't ignore the obvious. I can feel it, and the clumsy way he slams into me. Owen is still going from the other side, and I hear a muffled whimper. It is, of course, me. The next plea is me, too, and the next. I feel like I'm being torn apart at both ends. I try to gasp for breath, and I scream, which is smothered by Vladek's cruel laugh. I'm going to choke. I choke. I'm choking.

My face is wet with tears, and he takes either side of my face in his hands, roughly. It's not romantic, like Owen does, but possessive, violent. His other hand slips under my chin, and he achieves the perfect angle- for him. It only brings fresh tears to my eyes.

"Uh... uh... uh..." Vladek is loud, and I keep my eyes tightly shut. I don't want to see the smug look on this face. I don't want to see the pleasure. He doesn't deserve it. Still, tears roll down my face.

Owen. I try to focus on his efforts, and his alone, but he is being uncharacteristically quiet. I want to plead with him, that I need him to drown Vladek out, but I can't even move. A thousand things occur to me now that I should have predicted earlier. Should have talked about. I try to reach a hand behind me, to place it on his knee and ask him, but I can't find him, and I need the balance. I slam my hand back down on the floor before me, and let out a sorrowful moan. The guard continues to fuck my throat. Shit. How much longer will this go on for? I've lost all sense of time. I could have been here for moments, weeks, hours- my knees ache, and the injury in my thigh begins to throb.

My breathing is ragged.

I'm shaking. Owen jerks me forwards a few times, and I realise, from experience, he's about to come. I'm not ready, not with these people watching, but I know it's inevitable. And I want it to stop. What I want most is to be released from Vladek, but when I pull away, he pulls me upwards. His grip is too strong. He stands back up, and lifts me of the ground, so I'm on my knees. Owen is still somewhere. Owen. Owen...

He must have had his eyes shut, too, because I hear him exhale sharply, and he takes my now-freed hand suddenly. He holds it behind my back where no one can see. I sob with relief. I hold onto him like a lifeline, and feel him squeeze my hand reassuringly. I grip him tighter, and focus on his hand for the next few moments. Owen. Owen. Owen.

The order of events that follows is unclear. Both men come, and I swallow Vladek's in surprise. I don't want to, but the smallest fraction of my brain that has been given over to rational thought, calculates I would much rather have that than have to face any spillage. If my bloodstains are still on the floor from three days ago, I don't want to deal with these ones. I think that might just about break me.

Owen is more complex. I can feel him, but my brain begins to disconnect again. It feels floaty, and strange. Sometimes I can bounce back from these things, but not today. He must have snuck a condom on, and I'm grateful, but only half-aware of it.

There's chatter. Angry chatter. Rapid chatter. Owen argues in Russian. Torturing me right now is useless. Let me sleep. The two men with the box seem disappointed. I wipe my eyes, but fresh tears come. I wonder why the show wasn't enough for them. I wonder if they're Owen's superiors, not lackeys. Does that mean he hasn't impressed them? I wonder if they're Owen's superiors... I wonder when the pain will come. Owen is as much a prisoner here as me. I wonder when the pain will come. Owen is as much a prisoner as me. Pain will come. He had no choice. When the pain will come? When will...?

I black out.

***

There's a shaky, drawn out inhale, then a moan. That sound is me. I'm curled up on the floor, and bleeding. I don't want to think of where. I don't want to think of why.

My stomach hurts. It shouldn't. It shouldn't feel bruised. It shouldn't feel like I've been punched. My head shouldn't pound like it does. My temple feels like it'll explode if I keep lying here, but I can't move. I place one hand on my stomach, and grimace. The trauma has been passed along my gut.

With an energy I didn't know I possessed, I scream, and sob. I lie there for a long time, just screaming. I seem to think I can wring out every last scream that I couldn't voice earlier, but that entails thinking of earlier. And I don't want to do it. I don't want to do it.

Too late.

I blubber. I'm still naked, which provides some sense of reality. That's good, I guess. Otherwise I could ask myself, "Did that really happen?", and come away believing no. I think, in my disjointed way, that I would much rather know the truth.

Vladek. Vladek in my mouth. A rush of nausea accompanies that statement, and I force my shuddering limbs up.

I crawl to the toilet.

This time, I do throw up.


	5. A Complication

When the door opens, I expect it to be food. My torso hurts too much to discern the hunger within it, and I don't much feel like eating, but enough time has passed that I know it must be morning. The bleeding has stopped, although that doesn't mean anything. Most injuries like this need a hospital. I dressed myself an hour ago, which made me feel marginally better, although I'm still thirsty.

The people who enter the room aren't carrying breakfast. They're carrying a box. The box from yesterday. And, now that I get a better look at them, I see that they're the same jackasses from before.

I groan. _Owen_.

"Where's the other one?" I ask, in Russian. Shit. Have we established that I speak it, yet? I close my eyes. I'm getting clumsier. _Remember the plan, remember the plan, remember the plan._ But this wasn't part of the plan. My chest aches.

They don't answer me. I don't know if that's a good thing or not. I try again.

"If I'd've known you were coming back, I wouldn't have dressed for the occasion," I say.

The bearded man smiles coldly, but says nothing. The other returns with a chair, and sets it on the floor. As the door closes, I see it's been left unguarded. I could probably make it as far as the end of the corridor.

I turn my gaze to the chair, confusion evident, and the man titters.

"Forgive me, Mr Mega," the first says, "But I am old fashioned. I'm not here to fuck you."

My shoulders relax. Tension I didn't know I'd been holding. I give a shaky laugh. "Yeah?"

He shakes his head. "No. Instead, you and I are going to have a little chat."

I tilt my head. "I don't like the sound of that, I think I'll pass-"

"Please, Mr Mega- sit in the chair."

"Ooh, I get a please," I say. I make no effort to move, and try to look unflustered. My heart pounds. Where is Owen?

"Get in the chair, Mega," he repeats.

"I'd rather not, if it's all the same to you."

"It's not." He points to his accomplice, and, within moments, I'm bound to the chair by my wrists and ankles.

"There, now. That wasn't so difficult," the man says. He moves behind me, and I can hear him opening the box. I tense.

"Now we can get down to business," the man says. "My name is Alexi," he adds, as an afterthought. There's a clicking noise behind me, and I try to turn my head, with no luck.

_Crackle. Crack._

What is that? A machine? Electricity? I swallow, hard, and clench my hands.

"Nice to meet you," I say, stiffly. "I'd shake your hand, but..." The joke falls flat. "Difficult crowd," I murmur.

A silence follows, while he tinkers with some dials, and then I hear the unmistakable sound of... something starting up.

"Now, Mr Mega. I think it would be best if we agreed not to lie to each other." His voice is closer now, directly behind me.

My leg twitches, a nervous tick, and I close my eyes. I don't answer.

"For instance," Alexi puts a hand on my shoulder. "I can tell you: you've suffered admirably so far- and it was entertaining to watch you, truly- but it stops now. Today, I don't want to talk to 'Curt Mega, the lost American citizen'. I don't even want to talk to the American spy, who pretends to know the location of nonexistent bombs-"

I frown, and recall strangled fragments of my ordeal yesterday. Scattered breathing, groping, touching, muffled screaming. I hope Alexi doesn't notice the panicked rise and fall of my chest, but he seems too busy with his monologue.

"- I want to talk to the Curt Mega who knows, and regularly works with, Owen Carvour."

Now it's definitely impossible to ignore my fast breathing. "That name means nothing to me," I say, uneasily.

"No?" Alexi tuts. "Never let it be said that I didn't give you a chance. Itta," he barks to the other man, "Show our guest the consequences of lying to us."

To the side of the door, Itta nods. I brace myself for pain, to find out what that machine does, but instead, Itta opens the door. My head spins. The guards must have returned while we were conversing, and they're dragging a prisoner between them. I stop breathing.

My feet feel like lead. The prisoner has familiar black hair, and I hear his short, ragged breaths. They drop him on the floor at my feet, and I exhale shakily. He's been beaten badly, and a cut runs above his eyebrow. Despite this, he looks up at me, and gives me a weak smile. There's a cut to the left of his lower lip.

"Sorry, love," he gasps, before passing out.


	6. Escape, or: No One Knows What A Fucking Chimera Is

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is my huge Starkid humour tribute chapter, aka, 'Alexi has big Joe Walker energy'

  
"AhhHhhhh-!" Owen is revived by an arc of electricity, but it lingers long after it's served its purpose.

"Stop! Stop it!" I yell over his screams. Alexi sets his jaw, and holds the buzzer down for another few seconds. Owen twitches and jerks, but falls silent. He's passed out again.

The humming stops, and Alexi lowers his hand. "Good," he says. "I hope you understand the importance of honesty to me." This last comment is definitely directed at Owen, as he steps on his fingers, and twists with the heel of his foot.

"Ahhh.... hhh..." Owen makes a sick, choked sound, and my heart clenches. It must show on my face, because Alexi wheels to me.

"Don't pity him," he snaps. "He tortured you for three days without remorse."

I lower my head. "That's not true."

He ignores me. "Now," he says. "Both of you boys are going to give me everything you know on the CIA and MI5 respectfully, and then, I might be gracious enough to let you die quickly."

But Owen's not getting tortured without a fight.

"When did you work it out? What blew my cover?" He asks, and Alexi hesitates, then smiles.

"I never trusted you. Not really. A new transfer comes in, too good to be true, and all the other recruits just happily fall in line? No, something was amiss. But what really tipped me off was your little pet, here," he jerks his head towards me. "No face wounds. He put on a good show of getting fucked, of course- that almost swayed me. And, I think, swayed him, too."

The blood drains from me face, and I fix my eyes on the wall. That same old chain hook that has become my familiar friend. I close my eyes, and Alexi chuckles in my ear.

"And to think," he sneers, "You endured all that bleeding, too."

I catch the squeak before it can leave my throat, and exhale steadily.

"Then, of course, you'd got him so shaken up, you'd already done half of my job for me." There's an affronted grunt from Owen, and I open my eyes. Alexi is standing over him, and has placed his boot on Owen's chest. "So," Alexi continues, and turns to me. "Where do we begin?"

*******

"Before you execute us, at least do me the courtesy of explaining what's going on here, in this facility. Curt deserves to know." Owen's voice is faint, and he's endured much more shocking than I have. Alexi started off taking it in turns us, while the other one watched, but he swiftly decided to focus on Owen, perhaps because I was the most willing to give up information.

I hang my head. I'm weak.

Alexi chuckles, apparently genuinely tickled by the suggestion. "Deserves to know? Are you certain you'd like to break it to him, that his life's work- all that he's fought and suffered for, especially in the last few days- is about to come undone?"

Owen locks eyes with him. "Why don't you tell me?"

Alexi's mouth twists into a cruel approximation of a smile.

"I come from an organisation made up of wealthy people: politicians, actors... Anyone with money. Our goal is to make secrets a thing of the past. To move the world into a new age, without secrets. No agencies, no embassies- no nuclear weapons. No lies..." He smiles, on a tangent. "You do know how I value honesty. We've built a worldwide network of facilities, just like this one, capable of processing and storing information at unimaginable speeds. Think..." He tries to find a description big enough. "One million, automated typewriters, hooked-up to ticker tape. That's right. This technology is advanced. No one will have to be tortured, on end, ever again- not when all their information is available, at the push of a button."

"Ah. I see," I nod, wisely. "You're so anti-torture that you're willing to torture people, to end torture forever. Got it." The sarcasm is heavy on my tongue, and I don't regret it, even when it earns me another electric shock, because I can hear Owen's soft laugh from somewhere in the dark.

"We called ourselves Chimera. Even if you take down one cell, another shall be reborn." Alexi grins beatifically as he says this, and waits for us to get the significance."

I frown. "Um-"

Owen groans, and goes to the effort of raising his head. "Actually, that's a hydra," he says.

The smile on Alexi's face dies. "What?"

"Yeah," he coughs with the effort of talking. "If you cut off one head, another grows in its place. And the rebirth thing..." He grimaces, and puts a hand to his stomach. Alexi had kicked him a few times, just for fun.

"... Is a Phoenix," I supply.

Despite everything, Owen has a sparkle in his eyes. "That's right. From the ashes of the old Phoenix-"

"- another rises, yes, I know," Alexi says snippily.

There's a pause. No one dares ask the obvious question.

"So... What's a Chimera?" Owen breaks the silence.

Another pause.

Chuckling cuts through the room. "Oh. Oh, man," Owen says through his laughter. "You- you fucked up, man, you really fucked up." He splutters his way through the next wave of cough-laughter. "No one knows what a fucking Chimera is."

I join his laughter. We continue for quite some time, as Alexi gets more and more red in the face.

"Stop that," Alexi says.

Owen is getting choked up on his laughter. No matter how much it hurts him, he can't seem to stop.

"Stop it!"

We're quite literally hysterical, crying and scream-laughing our way through all the tension and the fear of the last few days. The last few months, in Owen's case.

"Stop it," Alexi splutters. "You will die, right now, die laughing. Is that what you want?"

I cackle. "It's always preferable to go out with a bang."

"No! No, it's not! You will die, screaming, with laughter. Forget the laughter! You will die screaming!"

Before I can respond, he turns the electricity on me, channeling his rage and anger through the gesture, and I hear Owen taper off, and return to a sober silence. Still, when it's over, I manage a small smile.

Owen is crawling across the floor towards Alexi.

"A chimera," I say, "Is a creature with a lion's head, a goat's body, and a serpent's tail." This is an effort to distract Alexi, but for a split second I see Owen freeze in surprise.

"Well, I'm glad that MI5 and the CIA dedicate so much training to Greek Mythology. Maybe, if they hadn't, you'd actually be competent spies, and my job would be a lot harder. As it stands..."

"You're welcome," I say, weakly. There's a hint of laughter in my voice, and Alexi glares at me, fingers on the buzzer threateningly. Without breaking eye contact, I spy Owen out of the corner of my eye. Something Alexi, standing so close to me, still hasn't seen.

"Do your worst," I whisper.

Alexi obliges, and instantly screams. Owen has slipped the jumper cables around his legs, and tied them firmly. He falls, and lands back-first on the floor, and a grimace flashes across his already-contorted face. Because of the voltage, it's impossible for him to struggle, or plead, or fight, and he's stuck, convulsing, like a fish out of water.

From his vantage point on the floor, still regaining his strength, Owen is in no position to gloat- yet gloat he does. "It was all part of my plan," he bullshits. "I knew you didn't trust me from day one. I tried to torture Curt to gain your trust- sorry, love-"

I smile placatingly, like 'it's no big deal', but it fades again. The electricity seems to have reopened some wounds, and I'm feeling them all with fresh clarity.

"Then, since you wouldn't tell me your plan, I had to endure your boring monologue for an hour. But, now that I know how the system works, I can take it out... Cheerio," he turns his back on Alexi, and staggers to his feet, with a groan.

Alexi struggles and twitches below us, but Owen ignores him, and sets to work freeing my arms and legs. 

"You complete and total, brilliant liar," I whisper. Owen bears his teeth.

"And, the best part," Owen says, kneeling down over Alexi's shuddering form, "Is you did it all to yourself. The electric charge makes your muscles tense up. In turn, your hand keeps pressing down on the button, which keeps the electricity flowing. Round and round and round. And-" his eyes flash dangerously, "Don't think you're getting out of this easy, just because you pass out. I'm sure the electricity will keep you entertained for many, many hours to come... Or however long it takes for your heart to give out. Curt, how long do you give him?"

I swallow. There's that side to Owen again, that I will always know is there. The vengeful streak. I glance at Alexi, and shake my head. "Um... Two hours?

Owen laughs. "Do you hear that, Alexi? Curt's not very impressed with you, but he's still quite generous. Me, I'd wager about thirty minutes, if you're lucky, you worthless bag of shit."

I bite back a smile. It feels almost wrong to laugh at the pathetic, snivelling wreck before us, despite all the harm he's caused. Owen takes my hand, and guides me towards the door.

He picks up the discarded chair, and wields it above his head. He locks eyes with me, and nods once.

"Ready?" He whispers.

"Ready," I lie.

Owen bursts through the door, and assaults the guards with the chair. The struggle is brief- they're distracted, confused by Alexi's screaming, and realise what's happening far too late. Once the noise stops, I limp out into the carnage, and Owen bends to pick up their guns. He hands one to me, and I stare at it. He reaches the end of the corridor, and looks back at me.

"What's wrong?" He says.

"Alexi's stopped," I breathe. He hesitates, listening to the suddenly-dull air. We can still hear the hum of electricity.

"Do you think he's dead?" I ask.

"No," Owen says, indifferent. "But he will be."

We keep running.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know this fic has been a bit too heavy at times, but this felt like a better way to start wrapping it up than I initially had planned. Final few chapters will be posted soon! Sorry if I didn't handle the tonal shift properly. The darkest part of the fic is over. More fluff soon.


	7. Escape, Part II

We move upwards through the compound, and I try to keep up with Owen, without making my limp obvious. You wouldn't think he's just been electrocuted, but he's bounced back with remarkable speed. My body, however, is a little slower.

He waits for me at the top of the stairwell. I shake my head. "Go," I wheeze, "It's alright."

"No," he comes back down, and drapes my arm across his shoulder. I groan. "Come on," he winds one arm around my waist, and hoists me up the stairs, one by one.

This is much faster. I use my right foot to climb, and place my hand on the rail for extra support, although the broken fingers don't help. I breathe heavily, ashamed to be such a burden.

A guard stumbles out onto the platform in front of us, but Owen shoots him before he can even react. My breath hitches. He used his left hand to do it, and I give him a pained smile.

"Show off," I say, through gritted teeth.

"Well, one has to be prepared," he says, modestly, as he sweeps me onto the next stairwell. The motion is too fast for me, and I cry out, as my abdomen spasms. He stops, and I double over.

"Owen-"

"We're almost out," he promises, and strokes my back.

"Ughhh," I moan, and collapse on the stairs. I'm_ in the exact same position I was when I got this injury._ I exhale_. Don't think about that._ I wheeze. The pain in my stomach grows. I must have been more hurt than I thought. I hope it's not internal bleeding. "Sorry," I close my eyes. "Can't go on." My hands are shaking.

Nausea. I breathe through it. Owen puts an arm around my waist again, and places me over his shoulder. I protest weakly, but he starts to run again, albeit with more caution.

The stairwell emerges onto a corridor. Owen's grip tightens on me as an alarm goes off. He sighs. "I guess things were going too smoothly," he jokes.

I groan in response.

My back is turned to the action, but I hear shouting up ahead, and gunfire. Yelling, in Russian. "Kadvek, you traitor!"

A bullet zips past.

"Shout all you like, Suli, it won't make your aim any better," Owen yells back, as we dart down a side corridor. The guards appear behind us just as we turn another corner, and I get a glimpse of them. One's tall, with brown hair, and the other is short, and blonde. This must be Suli, judging from the stray bullet that goes pinging off a pipe above us.

Rather than focus on chasing us, the other guard turns, to chastise him. His voice rings down the corridor as we move further away. "You idiot!"

We burst into a darkened room, and a door shuts quietly behind us. Owen drops me onto something soft, and I stretch out my arm as my eyes adjust. Heavy footsteps thunder past us on the corridor outside, and Owen waits a moment before flicking a light on. It's a small storage room. Most of the floorspace is taken up with stacks of sand bags, one of which I'm sitting on. There are crates scattered around the room, marked with Cyrillic, but I can't quite focus on the words. Owen moves closer to a shelving unit at the back of the room.

"What are those?" I say, still looking at the boxes.

Owen rummages through something. "Explosives," he says, calmly.

"Oh." I exhale slowly._ Focus on breathing_.

"Don't worry, we're not here to blow them up. This is just a detour- ha!" He laughs triumphantly, and fishes something out of the box. "Got it." He strides over to me, and shows me my wristwatch. My stomach turns.

"Want to talk to Cynthia?"

I shake my head.

"OK," he places a hand on my shoulder, and switches the comm link on. "Hi, Cynthia. Owen here." There's a crackle. "Hello?" He tries again.

"Maybe the signal can't get through," I say, hopefully.

There's a pause. Then-

"Owen? What the FUCK is going on?" The voice is tinny, distorted, which only makes her sound angrier.

I wince, even though it's not directed at me. Yet.

"Cynthia! My darling, my angel, my world, my sunshine... Hello," Owen stalls, and strokes a thumb across my shoulder gently. "We're-"

"Stop playing around- WE? So you _are_ with Curt. CURT," she yells. "Where the hell are you? It's been three days. What the-"

"Could do with being a little quieter, my dear; we're in a bit of a tight spot."

A brave interruption, I think. I can almost hear her seething on the other end of the line.

"Fine," she snaps. "Explain."

"You sent Curt to the same place I was undercover."

"I know that."

I look up at the ceiling. She didn't tell me that.

"- Are you telling me that idiot got himself captured immediately?"

I sigh. Owen squeezes my shoulder, and tilts his head. "There were... Complications. My fault." He pauses, and doesn't elaborate. "We need an extraction team; we're cornered in here, and injured."

She sighs. "Why can't M-I-whatever-the-fuck sort it out?"

"This was the nearest communicator," Owen says, bashfully. "And mine was destroyed."

"Curt's rubbing off on you," she mutters disapprovingly. "Extraction team?" she scoffs. "Yeah, no can do. The nearest help is miles away. Get to the rendezvous point in half an hour, and we'll extract you from there."

"Rendezvous, got it," he says, confidently. 'Where's the rendezvous?' He mouths to me.

I grunt, and flip open the clockface, to reveal a little display beneath it. "There." I point to a glowing green dot.

"Curt, I know you're there; I can hear you," Cynthia sighs.

"Cynthia! Still me," Owen says. He flits round the room, rustling boxes, probably searching for ammunition.

"Whatever. Keep him alive, so I can kill him myself," she huffs.

"Yes ma'am," Owen grins, and ends the call. "Well done," he says, warmly. There's a pit in my stomach.

"Hmm." I breathe in, and stare at my shoes. They're scuffed, and have dried blood on them, but no new stains, from what I can tell. I breathe out.

"No ammo," Owen tuts, and drops something back onto the shelving unit. I turn, and stare at the array of discarded items. Some string, a box of hardtacks, a blue rubber duck (?), a lighter, and the gun he'd been using, now empty. The duck is wearing a little sewed hat that says CCCP.

I turn away, and steady my breathing. I fix my eyes on the explosives, and a thought plays on my mind.

"Maybe we should," I say, quietly.

"Hmm?"

"Blow up the place," I say. "You heard what Alexi said, this compound-"

"Is one of many," Owen crouches before me, and takes my hands in his own. "You're hurt, love. Badly. Our first priority is to get you out of here. You can't help anyone if you're dead."

I grunt. "Well, I've been fairly useless so far."

Owen's mouth twitches downwards, but he keeps the rest of his face neutral. "Stop that," he chastises, and kisses my forehead. "You were wonderful."

He puts the watch on my wrist, and I shake my head. "I don't want it."

"Shut up. It's yours," he fastens it, and I exhale.

"OK." I force myself to my feet, and stumble forwards. Owen holds me back.

"What are you doing?" He asks.

"Walking?"

"No you're not," he says, crouching down so I can get on his back. "Come on."

I pretend to put up a fight for a moment. A thousand excuses flit through my head._ 'I'm not a child. I can walk_.' I shake them off with a sigh, and try to be as gentle as possible as I climb on. I wrap my arms and legs around him.

"Let's go!" he says, with unmatched enthusiasm. I grimace.

***

It all goes smoothly, until we get to the front door... Which, considering that the front door is back along the corridor where Suli and the other guard were, isn't saying much. Now that we've drawn them off, the door itself is almost unguarded. At first, I think we have a home run...

Until I see Itta standing there, swinging something in his hands. Owen freezes. I hop down, and attempt to make myself look battle-ready.

"Curt, take cover," he says from the corner of his mouth. I straighten up.

"I'm fine," I lie. It's taking all my strength to remain standing, and my leg shakes visibly. Itta curls his lip.

"You kill my friend," Itta snarls, "I kill yours."

Owen feigns surprise. "I'm sure I don't know what you mean, my dear."

"Don't! Lie!" Itta roars, and hurls his weapon against the ground, with a rattle. I realise they're chains, presumably taken from my cell downstairs, which means-

I swallow.

"Why don't you put those down, and let us pass?" Owen suggests. It's a long shot, and he knows it.

"You. Fight me, now," Itta growls, and Owen raises his hands.

"Alright," he says. "Hand to hand combat. No tricks, just you and me. Put the chains down, and I'll come closer."

Itta hesitates.

"Put them down," Owen repeats. Itta spits, and drops the chains at his feet. "Kick them away," Owen says.

He stares.

"Kick them away."

There's a clatter, and Itta cracks his knuckles, and snorts. "This will be easy."

"It may well be," Owen mutters. He approaches slowly, his arms raised defensively.

"Owen," I warn.

"It's fine, Curt."

It's not fine. Since we began our escape, between carrying me and sprinting upstairs, Owen has become significantly weaker. I can see the tremor in his legs.

Itta grins, and charges like a rhinoceros. He grapples with Owen, who hisses with effort, and kicks out at his legs. Itta dodges, and tuts, twisting Owen's arm behind his back. He gasps, and tries to break free. Itta pushes him onto his knees on the floor, and he grunts.

"Once I'm finished with you, I'm going to do to your American friend what you did to Alexi," he growls into his ear. Owen struggles uselessly, as Itta begins to strangle him.

I stand, paralysed, and watch as Owen goes pale. He stops fighting, and instead chokes. I place a hand on my side. If I run, I could get there in time, but then what? My heart pounds, as adrenaline sets in. Damn the consequences, I have to save him. Owen is the one with months worth of information, the only one who can stop all of this. If he doesn't leave the compound, it will all be worthless.

I stagger forwards a few steps, and then remember something obvious. Something in my back pocket.

Quick as a flash, I pull out the gun. Itta doesn't even notice it. Hand shaking, I raise the other one to steady it, and focus on Itta's head. Focus. Time is ticking away, and Owen is dangerously close. Focus.

I pull the trigger, and Itta tumbles backwards. It was a clean shot, and he dies, instantly.

Owen crawls backwards away from the body, wide-eyed.

"What the fuck was that?" He gasps, from the floor. He massages his throat.

"I... I dunno. You gave it to me earlier."

He looks incredulous. "I know that; I thought you'd dropped it!"

I stare at it. "I... Should have given it to you in the storeroom, earlier, but I... Forgot I had it." I look away.

I expect Owen to shout at me. His, mouth is agape, and eyebrows raised. Then, his indignation melts into a grin. He throws his head back with laughter. "You forgot?!" He shrieks. "Jesus, Curt, the CIA must have been desperate when they hired you."

I sleepily consider a retort, but there are thunderous footsteps on the stairway above us, probably alerted by the gunfire. The smile fades from Owen's face.

"Shit," he says, and pulls himself to his feet. "D'you think you can run?"

_'Of course I can't,'_ I think, but the adrenaline pumping through me says otherwise. I shift my injured leg slightly, and nod hesitantly. I hope it doesn't collapse on me again.

A volley of gunfire follows us out of the door, and Owen pushes it shut. There are echoey clangs as the bullets embed themselves in the metal behind us, and I jump away from it, heart racing. He grabs my left hand, and runs like hell.

We fly across the fields- or, in my case, trip, continually, at high speeds. The metal door is flung open behind us, followed by more gunfire. Shit, shit, shit.

"Where are we going?" I wheeze.

"Car," he pants, "I left one in the bushes... Somewhere."

I blanch. It's nightfall, (it turns out it takes all day to relay the entire knowledge of the secret service. Alexi wasn't kidding about wanting it all. Bastard.) and it'll be hard to find in the dark. I curse.

"Don't worry," Owen says. "Just head towards that field, there. We'll find it."

We continue in determined silence, and the gunfire tails off behind us. We're headed downhill, and keep running in zigzags, although my leg is screaming with effort. I can't tell if I'm winded or not, because the pain in my stomach has blossomed into a crescendo of complaints, and hunger.

"When was the last time I ate?" I ask, and Owen almost looks amused.

"You're asking this now, Curt?"

"I-"

I shriek as the gunfire starts up again, and he grips my hand tighter. "They're too far away to get us," he gasps, "Just... Keep. Going."

I'm not sure about that, but I push forwards. Everything below my stomach is aching, and the rest of me doesn't feel too hot, either. I cling to Owen, not even certain which direction we're heading, just going as fast as I can.

We dive behind a hedgerow, and keep moving. We're on the road now, and the shock of the hard tarmac makes me want to slow down. I groan, and push through it.

"Over there!" Owen points to a large bush by the side of the road, and the car must be well-hidden, because I can't see it. Still, I continue, lungs burning.

Now we're behind the bush, I see it. I rush forwards, tugging Owen along, but he gets curiously sluggish.

"Owen?" I ask, searching for the problem. I see it, there, further up the arm that had been holding me. "You're bleeding," I say.

He looks down. A large dark patch blooms on his sleeve, and he eyes it with calm surprise.

"Oh. So I am," he says, and collapses against me.

"Owen-" I plead, but his eyes are closed, breathing heavy. I grunt, and feel around in his pockets for the car keys. Bingo! I open the door. It can't have taken more than a few seconds, but I'm wary of our pursuers. "Come on, Owen," I plead. No response.

I push him into the passenger seat, even though I feel like the motion might kill me, and limp around the front of the car. It's slow, painfully slow, but I finally make it to the driver's seat. I get in, slam the door. Lights crest the top of the hill. My heart leaps. Shit. I shove the key in the ignition, and the engine roars to life. It's uncomfortably loud, and the search party are running towards us down the road. I feel close to passing out, too, but the second I do that, we'll both be dead. I blink, hard, to wake myself up a little.

Through the mirror, I see someome take aim, and I curse. We won't get far if they shoot out the tires. I grit my teeth, and put the engine into reverse. They drop their gun, and dive out of the way. The rest of the group catches up. More guns aimed at me, someone has a machine gun. I duck down under the window, and floor the gas, throwing the car into a wobbly escape. They shoot the driver's- side windows out, but no one else seems to think about the tyres. My teeth chatter, and broken glass falls into my lap. Some strikes my face, and arms, but I can't think about that. I just have to keep moving.

They keep shooting the car as I drive away, and hairline fractures appear on the back window. I keep going. We must be out of range. We must be.

The window shatters.

My breath is patchy. I glance across at Owen. He's slouched sideways in his seat, already drenched in blood. Shit. I can see the bullethole in his arm. Small mercy; it went straight through, but that makes the blood loss much worse. It pains me to do so, but I keep driving. I can't stop the car until the building is far in the distance, and, at present, I can still see it.

There's a pang in my stomach, and I groan. In his sleep, Owen reacts to the sound, and stirs slightly. I long to reach out to him, but I force myself to keep going. Just another mile, I think.

Just another mile.


	8. Rendezvous

I lose track of the time, but Cynthia clearly hasn't. My watch bleeps, and I flip it open quickly.

"Yeah, Cynthia?" I sigh.

"Mega?" There's a cool silence. "I'm glad you've finally deigned to talk to me."

I glance across at the unconscious Owen. "I don't have much choice."

"Ha, ha. Cut the crap; you don't have time. I've just had word from the rendezvous, where are you?"

I bite back a retort. "In a car. It took us a while to leave the compound-"

"Curt. I said half an hour."

I suck air through my teeth. My head begins to sting, more than a little. "Yeah, well, you made that deal with Owen. You've got me now." My voice trembles, and I cover it with a cough. _Not now._

"It wasn't a deal, it was a time limit-"

"We'll be there." I try to keep my voice neutral.

"Mega, I swear to God-"

"Like you said, Cynthia, I don't really have time for this, so-" My voice cracks. I end the call. My head is pounding.

"Mm?" Owen opens his eyes, and curls his hand around the bullet wound. "Shit," he hisses.

I blink away tears, and pray he's too distracted to see them.

"You're awake," I breathe, painfully aware of my heartbeat. I imagine it keeping pace with his, every precious second costing him more and more blood.

He groans. "Yeah, you bastard. Why haven't you patched me up yet?" He chuckles, then winces.

My eyes flit to the window. The compound has got smaller in the mirror, and they don't seem to have sent any cars after us. Still, there's a chance. If I let my guard down, and they catch up with us... But, Owen is bleeding out.

I exhale. "Five minutes," I say, and pull over.

As I turn to get a look at his wound, he mimics my expression. Concern. "What?" I ask.

"Your face-" he says, clearly looking at the fresh scratches.

"It's nothing," I lie, ignoring the sting. I can sort it later.

"_Nothing?_ Curt, you've got _glass_ in your head-"

"Leave it."

He's too weak to argue, but he pouts. I kill the ignition.

"I'm going to take your shirt off," I warn him. He gives me a tiny nod, and I pop each button quickly. I place a hand on his back to bring him forwards, and carefully peel it off. He breathes heavily. "Just the sleeve to go," I say, and try to be gentle. He exhales sharply, but I successfully get it off. I don't eye the wound more than necessary. "I suppose a first aid kit would be too much to hope for?"

He manages a tight laugh. "Sorry."

I shake my head, and begin to tear the shirt. "And Cynthia thinks you're the organised one."

He smiles weakly. "Well, I brought the car."

"That's true," I say, "A car without a first aid kit in it." I wind the first piece of fabric around his arm. I leave part of it loose, and search around for something, anything. A rod of some kind.

"Tourniquet?" Owen asks. I nod. He slides his left hand into his pocket, and pulls something out. "Gun?" he suggests, with a sleepy smile.

"Owen." I place it firmly on the dashboard. There's got to be something here... My eyes settle just outside the front window, and I narrow my eyes. "Be right back."

I return with one of the windscreen wipers, and he grunts. "Oh, right. Feel free to cannibalise my car."

"Serves you right for forgetting a first aid kit," I say, and loop the wiper into the bandage. "Besides, the gun could still come in handy, but I doubt it's going to rain."

I twist it a little too hard, and he whimpers. "Sorry," I murmur. The first piece of fabric is already soaked in blood, which turns my stomach. I bind it with another.

"Hahh..." He sinks lower in the seat, and I keep going, until his arm is sufficiently covered. I tie it. He closes his eyes and hums in pain. Not sure what to do, I rest my hand on his head. He hums again, and leans into me. I stroke his hair hesitantly, as Cynthia's warning echoes in my mind.

A breeze blows through the windowless door, and I start. It puts my hair on edge, and I remember Owen's shirtlessness.

"Cold?" I ask, and wonder if I should give him mine. That'll leave me in the same predicament, but...

"I'm- fine," he chatters. His arms chafe against mine.

"I can feel you shivering," I say, and move to take my shirt off. He stops me with his good arm.

"I've got a jacket in the trunk," he stumbles, like he's just remembered it.

I pull away from him, and open the car door. "If there's a first aid kit in there that you've forgotten-"

"- You have to let me patch you up," he says.

"OK," I agree. I keep my breathing steady, and trudge round to the back of the car to retrieve the jacket. No first aid kit. I'm not sure how to feel about that, but I'm happy that we have no reason to wait around.

My hands shake, but it's not from the cold. I traipse back to the car, and try to keep my footsteps light, to mask the limp, but Owen sees.

"Shit. I forgot," he says. He takes the jacket, and keeps his eyes fixed on me. "Let me drive," he pleads, already getting up.

"No. I can't _walk_," I push him back down in his seat. "_Drive_, I can do."

He eyes me sceptically. "But-"

"My arms work better than yours," I insist. He can't argue with that. I have to help him pull the jacket on, and I watch for a moment as he struggles with the zip. I offer him my unbroken fingers, and, between him holding the jacket steady, and me pulling the zipper, we reach some sort of clumsy arrangement.

I'm about to move away, but he catches me around the wrist. I meet his eyes, and sheepishly raise my other hand, the broken fingers, like a salute. I can feel the pulse in them, unnaturally sharp. I try to think of something intelligent to say. Something passable flits away. '_We're quite the pair, you and I._' Both equally injured, although I hope Owen isn't as hurt as me, and that I'm not as injured as I feel. Then I remember how I got those injuries, and-

I try to stop thinking. All I'm aware of is Owen's mouth, inches from mine. My heart, racing. His breath on my lips. My breath on his. My lips on his. Frozen like this. Literally, frozen.

I can't do this.

I pull away. I clear my throat, but it's still constricted. "We need to go. Cynthia probably expects one of us to be dying to forgive tardiness, and I'm not sure she accepts that as an excuse." I'm talking too fast, and I inhale. "I haven't even checked if we're going in the right direction," I say, and flip open the dial on my watch. We are.

"Curt," Owen says, softly.

"So," I stare at the green dot, and close the watch again. I should have started the car by now. "Let's go." If a group from the compound were chasing us, they would have caught up by now... Or I'm giving them ample opportunity to catch up, by doing nothing but sit here. I intend to move, but it's like my hands are disobeying me. Not now. I make a circular, wheezing sound.

"Curt." The hand on my elbow is unobtrusive, but it still makes my skin burn. Every sense is heightened, on high alert, yet my body is sluggish, disconnected.

"We need to get to the rendezvous," I stammer.

"We will." The hand strokes my elbow.

"Not in time." I exhale. Still paralysed. If they leave without us, which, knowing Cynthia, they will-

My eyes search Owen's for help.

"Let me clean your forehead," he says.

I don't ask 'what with?'. I just nod.

"Then I'll drive."

"No," I whisper.

He takes a controlled breath. "Then we'll discuss who's driving.

My heart thunders. "Fine."

"Sit still-" he cups my chin, and holds me steady.

It takes longer than I'd like, as all Owen has is a dry scrap of fabric, but I'm privately relieved that the shards are gone.

"OK," I say numbly, and take the steering wheel. "We're good."

Owen says nothing. He just watches me.

My grip tightens. "We're good," I repeat, in a whisper.

The facade collapses in an instant. Before I know it, my head is in my hands, and I can't control it. I take deep, calming breaths, but they're accompanied by tears. Owen's hand is on my arm again, but I shrug it off, and slap the steering wheel. "You drive," I give in.

"Curt-"

I shake my head. We swap places, mutely, and I rest my head against the seat. Owen gives me a concerned glance, but starts the engines up anyway. More tears make their way down my face, and I do nothing to stop them.

***

I wake with a start. Scenery whizzes past, at a dizzying pace, and Owen checks his wrist periodically. I realise, with some relief, that he's taken the watch.

"How long was I out?" I ask, startling him.

He looks startled. He didn't realise I was awake. "Twenty minutes?" He frowns. "Not long."

I groan. "And we've still not reached the rendezvous?"

He taps his fingers against the wheel. "We're close."

I smile, humorlessly. "Only an hour late." The tightness in my stomach returns, and I swear I can't breathe. I'm caught up with worrying about multiple things, and I try to recall the symptoms of internal bleeding. Headaches, exhaustion, nausea. Passing out. But there's a number of categories that could fall into. It could be bruising, or anxiety. If it was more serious, I doubt I would be able to wake up.

I close my eyes again.

***

"What the fuck?"

My eyes flutter open. The car is parked, but Owen appears to be on the brink of sending it into full reverse. His eyes are wide, and he looks out of the window at something I cannot see. I blink, and look again.

A group of men swarm us, all dressed in black. On instinct, I reach for the gun, prepared to fight my way out. The door beside me is thrown open, and an American accent greets me.

"Put the gun down, Carvour. We're the extraction team."

Carvour? I glance across at Owen, who's just as confused as me. The group opens the driver's-side door, too, and he cries out in pain- one of them has grabbed him by the injured arm.

"Owen-" I say, only now realising that I've been grabbed, too. I'm pulled backwards, and, for the second time this evening, hoisted unceremoniously over someone's shoulder. Owen complains loudly, and this continues until we reach the helicopter.

"Mr Mega, please calm down," the leader says, as he wrestles him into his seat. Someone straps us in, and I close my eyes. There's too much going on, too much confusion, but I know one thing. My eyes snap open.

I stare at the man. "I'm Curt. He's Owen."

The man blinks, and he takes us both in. "Right. I got confused." He nods to Owen's wrist. "The watch."

I move to grab Owen's wrist reassuringly, and disguise the gesture by taking the watch. "You were tracking us," I say, and the man nods.

"Your director told me you'd probably wearing it," he says.

"Couldn't you tell from the accent?" Owen asks, reproachfully. I understand his wariness, and I pat his shoulder. He's just looking out for us, so we don't get kidnapped again. Still, I can only assume that Chimera wants us dead, rather than alive, and we're surrounded by a whole lot of guns. If we couldn't trust them, we'd already be dead.

"Welcome to an American extraction, Owen," I joke, trying to communicate all of this in a single sentence.

He looks unconvinced, unused to being manhandled by his allies, and I'm almost jealous. The truth is, I don't know if we can trust them. I can only hope.

The helicopter starts up, and they pass some headsets around. As he passes me one, Owen's hand brushes against mine, and I meet his eyes.

We share an uneasy smile.


	9. Hospital, Or: A Companionable Silence

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes: This chapter references the events of chapters 1, 4 and 6. Content warning for explicit and non explicit references to torture, PTSD, flashbacks.

There's a moment before I fully wake up where I lie there, like a scared animal, and listen to the sound of my own heartbeat on the monitors.

So it _was_ serious, then.

"Hnn..." My voice sounds unfamiliar. It's not a cry of pain. I'm too doped up to feel much of anything. I turn my head to the side, and, eyes still closed, try to gauge the situation.

There's a drip in my right hand. _Why that hand? _I suppose the broken fingers made it an easy target. I exhale. I could have been out for days. _These pillows are soft._

I snuggle into them.

_My name is Curt Mega. I work for the CIA. I was captured by a group called Chimera. __Owen-_

I don't want to recall this next part. I grip the bedsheets in my left hand. They're soft, too, but they hurt when I clench too hard. _I was tortured. I __was-_

Don't say it.

_We escaped. Owen got me out. I got him out. _He tortured me. _It doesn't matter. _He got me out. I got him out. _Then I passed out in the helicopter. _And now I'm here. _Where _is_ here?_

I open my eyes. On the wall opposite me, there's a large observation window. There's a curious assortment of people outside- doctors, nurses, secret service people, and, one unexpected edition, a very angry woman. Five feet of pure rage, plus whatever height her heels afford her, arguing with a doctor, is Cynthia Houston.

The doctor gives in, and gestures to the door. She sweeps past him without another word, and rushes into the room.

"They wouldn't let me see you," she exhales. Her eyes are red. "It's been two days, Curt. _Mega,"_ she corrects herself.

"I'm fine," I try to smile it off, but I'm not actually qualified to say anything. I try to sit up in bed, but it's not happening. I grunt. "I'm almost happy to see you."

"Cut the crap, Mega. I had to travel all the way over here because these M-I-fucks wouldn't release you-" She stiffens. "- _The intelligence you __gathered_\- back to us."

So, we're in London. I smile. "I knew you cared, really."

She huffs, and takes a seat in a chair to my left. "Yeah, well, this _Chimera_ shit is really getting me down. If I slip up and show some fucking emotion, don't take it the wrong way, OK? It doesn't mean I'm not _pissed_ at you."

I exhale. She's looking at me like I'm made of paper. I don't have to ask how bad it is. If Cynthia is actually being _nice _to me, we're talking lights-at-the-end-of-the-tunnel.

"I guess you want me to tell you about it," I say. "You came all this way." There's a twist in my stomach, and I don't need the bleep of the monitors to tell me I'm _not _ready to discuss this.

She looks down, and fiddles with something. It takes me a moment to realise it's the watch.

"Owen caught me up, in a joint meeting with MI5. How it didn't take more than an hour for you to _blow your cover,_ then his." She gives me a pointed look, but doesn't seem to have the heart to put any sternness into her words, so they sounds strange, and flat.

"Nice," I wind my fingers into the blanket. "Is that a new record?"

"Ha-dee-ha," she wrinkles her nose. "Then some macho-acting higher-up came in, and asked me to leave. _Me. _Director of the C-I-fucking-A. So, if you know where the rest of the Chimera locations are-"

"I don't," I say, quickly.

"- we're in the dark," she sighs. "I hate not knowing."

My hand twitches. "Sorry. Owen got all the good intelligence." _I was the one getting interrogated. _"I was just trying to... stay alive."

She pats my hand. "I know," she says, with a softness that makes my stomach turn. _Don't be kind to me. Not now. _I'm unpractised at defending against her sincerity. _This is how she gets you. You think she's going to interrogate you, so you put your walls up, and then she just... Talks._

"I..." My throat constricts. I'm undoubtedly going to spill all my secrets to her. "How much do you know?"

She hesitates. "Curt. Look. I know how you guys get. You get interrogated a few times, so you think you've failed, but the truth is, it's just part of the job. I want you to know... It's not your fault."

She's trying to comfort me, but it does nothing to ease my unsteady breathing.

"But... you don't get injuries like those from ordinary torture," she says, quietly.

I close my eyes. _She knows. _At least she doesn't know who did it, that... Might actually kill me. _If she doesn't kill him first._

I picture Itta, although I don't much like the image. _Blood spattered across the floor. You shot him in cold blood._ The other images aren't much nicer. It's more of a feeling, of course. Some vague awareness that this _thing _happened to me, and the accompanying screams.

_Trying _to scream.

I steel myself, and go for a half-truth. The mostly-truth. "The guys who did it are dead."

"Yeah?" She looks in my eyes. She's a human lie detector, and, even if she wasn't, I'm hooked up to a heart rate monitor. Instant polygraph. She can tell I'm holding back, but she doesn't push me.

"Good," she looks away. We sit in silence for a moment, and she takes my hand. Mine absolutely dwarfs hers.

I tighten my grip, and gesture loosely to the machines behind me. "Internal bleeding, right?" I try to keep my voice light, and casual. _Just an everyday thing._

She wraps her other hand around mine, and surprisingly strong fingers circle my knuckles. "They say they're not sure what caused it. But they took a guess at the initial injury." Her breath catches.

I nod, almost imperceptibly, and it feels like my head is shaking. "I was bleeding," I whisper. "And then I was electrocuted. Owen, too."

_ I wasn't going to talk about this. _But I can't seem to stop. The floodgates are open now.

"Then I-" my teeth chatter. "I distracted him- this guy, named Alexi- and Owen electrocuted _him_." I frown. This isn't the right order of events. "Before that, Alexi told us about Chimera. Some bullshit about... Ending secrets. Airing the world's dirty laundry." A thought occurs to me, and I squeeze her hand. "I didn't... _have _a plan, going in. It was my fault."

She exhales. "And I didn't tell you MI5 was in the building," she places a hand on my forearm. "Owen," she amends. "I thought it would distract you, but... It put you in danger."

I focus on breathing. "I think... _Not _knowing about him distracted me more."

She purses her lips. "I can see that now."

_Shit. _Human lie detector. I tear my hand away, and clear my throat.

"Chimera seem to have rich sponsors worldwide. If you can find them, you can find their compounds."

She gives me a sad sort of smile. "You focus on getting better," she says. "I'll deal with Chimera."

We sit there for another few minutes, in a companionable silence.

There's a knock on the door. We exchange a glance.

"Come in," I call.

The door creaks open. Owen pops his head round the door. "I heard you were awake..." He spots Cynthia. "... But, I can come back later."

She rises. "I was just leaving," she says. She glances back at me, and a strange look builds on her face. "You didn't hurt your arm, right?" She asks.

"Um. No," I say, slowly. "That was actually one of the few places that wasn't- hey!"

She punches me, hard, on the bicep. I belatedly remember that Owen did that, too, but the bruise has since faded. Just in time for me to get another one. I groan.

"That's for making me worry," she scowls. "You know what I always say-"

"The head of the CIA doesn't get worried, or sentimental, she gets results," I chant.

"That's fucking right," she says. Her voice is strained, and she marches out of the room, and gives Owen a stiff nod.

He tilts his head. "I think you made her cry."

I swallow. "It was a group effort."

He laughs, and tiptoes across the room to me. "Well, I thought you might need saving."

"She was actually being nice, for once." I sound dazed.

His head has been bandaged, and there are stitches above his eyebrow. I wonder if it will leave a scar. However bad he looks, I must be worse, because he's watching me like he's scared of breathing, because the tiniest breath of air might blow me away. I'm surprised Cynthia had the balls to hit me.

"Sit down then, asshole," I say, and he gives me a lopsided smile, then settles into the seat beside me. I'm happy to see him, but it's mingled with something else. My chest is tight.

"Still alive, then?" His lip wavers.

I nod. "Despite appearances." His injured arm hangs limply at his side. "Are you in pain?" I ask, and he smiles.

"A little. The doctor says it's going to leave an attractive scar."

I roll my eyes. "Flirt."

He mimes poking my belly, but doesn't actually do it. "Invalid," he says.

I stretch my arms out, and sink into the bed. "Go ahead," I say, "I'm all drugged up, anyway."

He hesitates, then pulls back the blankets, and kisses my stomach through my shirt.

I squirm, and suppress a giggle.

"Still ticklish, then?" He says, triumphantly.

I swing at him lazily, aiming to slap his knee, and he dodges it easily. He laughs, and begins to stroke my hair. It's a tender motion, but something about it startles me. I don't mean to, but I freeze.

"I'm sorry," he pulls away.

"Don't be," I say. My heart is beating unnaturally fast, even though I know I'm perfectly safe. "What's wrong with me?" I ask, in a small voice.

He makes a tiny, disapproving sound. "Nothing," he says. "You've had a bit of a shit time of late, love. You can do whatever you want."

I exhale. "But I don't _want _to."

He hesitates. "May I take your hand?" He whispers. We both glance at the observation window. No one's there. I manage a small smile.

"Only if you let me see your arm," I say, suddenly curious. He smiles, demurely, and unbuttons his shirt.

"It's still all bandaged up," he says, and slides the sleeve down so I can see the bandage. My heart takes on a more positive rhythm.

"Stitches?" I ask.

"Somewhere under there," he nods. "They said you did a good job with the tourniquet. I didn't even lose my arm."

I raise an eyebrow. "It's more than you deserve," I joke, and hold my hand out. He re-does his shirt, then squeezes my fingers.

"Do you still have the apartment key I gave you?" He asks.

I smile. It was two years ago when he gave it to me. "It's sitting in a drawer back in America. I didn't want a bunch of Russian criminals getting their hands on it."

There's a soft laugh, and he strokes my hand. "Worth a lot, is it?"

"More than my job."

He tries to hide his smile, and his grip tightens. "I knew you'd forget it," he teases. I pout.

There's a pause.

"I'm going away for a while," he says.

My hand twitches. "OK."

"Not for long," he clarifies, hurriedly. "It's just..."

"_Work?"_ My voice drips with sarcasm, which Owen pretends he can't hear.

"Yeah." He attempts a smile. "It won't be long," he repeats.

I stare at him. "That's what you said last time." I try to tug my hand away, but he catches it with his injured arm, and winces. I stare at him. "Owen-"

"It's not like last time," he says. "I'll be back within a week.

"You're still recovering," I snap.

"I'll be fine."

"Yeah?" I tug his injured arm again, just to make a point. He blinks, rapidly.

"Someone has to destroy Alexi's legacy." His voice is strained.

I shake my head. "Why does it have to be you?"

"Because I'm the best," he says, without a hint of humour. I look away.

"You used to count me in that category," I say.

"I still do."

"I know you had to go undercover without me, and I know I came stumbling in there and messed it all up, but when-?" My voice catches. "- Owen, _when _did you stop trusting my judgement?"

He exhales. "My superiors didn't want me sharing information with the CIA, so-"

"Bullshit, Owen. That was you."

He hesitates, and queues up a different excuse. "You need time to recover," he says.

"So do you," I spit back. I tug away again, and he finally releases my hand.

He pinches the bridge of his nose. "Fine," he whispers. "You're right. I don't want you to come with me, because I want to keep you safe. Is that so wrong?"

I exhale. "You think I'm incompetent-"

"No-"

"You think I'm weak-"

"- Curt Mega, you're the strongest man I know."

The sentence hits me, and I close my eyes. My breathing is steady, but my heartbeat isn't. I can feel my pulse in my feet, and it's telling me to run away.

Owen keeps talking. "I want to know you're alive and well, waiting for me." Beat. "I want to know you're happy."

I squeeze my eyes shut tighter. _Not now. _How many times was Owen Carvour going to make me cry?

"I don't believe you," I whisper. "I don't trust you," I realise. _Shit. _That slipped out.

My pulse is hammered out for all to hear. I hate that fucking monitor. "Could we turn that off," I choke, "For five minutes?"

"Curt-"

I give him a look. It must be fairly intimidating, despite the tears, because he flicks a switch. I exhale, surprised.

"You've done that before," I say, forgetting to be angry for a moment.

"I had to kill someone," he says. "Unimportant."

I to give him a stern look. It must come out as questioning, because he elaborates.

"A silent machine is less suspicious than flatlining-"

I raise a hand. "I keep thinking about the compound. Replaying it. Owen, you-" _you helped rape me. _"You hurt me, down there." _Tortured. _"You expected me to follow you without a word, and I- " I stammer out the next part of my sentence. "- I know we made a plan, but I didn't have much of a choice." I whisper the end of the sentence, and wipe tears away. "And now I've just killed any chance of going with you." _Being with you._

"Jesus, Curt. I..."

"You left me for months- _four months- _without warning. I thought you were dead, and then you-" _tortured me. Just say it. _"- The first time I saw you, and violence." It's a shaky whisper, but I manage to push it out.

He doesn't sigh, exactly. He sort of folds, collapses into himself, and makes a popping sound. "I didn't even... Consider that."

It's a lot. I know it's a lot. But it's too much to bear alone.

"I wish I could just change the way I feel. But I can't."

He nods, mutely. "I'll..." He breathes shakily. "I'll make it up to you. Regain your trust."

I exhale. I can't even fathom how we begin to do that.

"Do you see now? Why I have to go?"

I shake my head. "Four months, Owen," I repeat. _And leaving is _not _a solution._

"It won't be four months-"

"How long? Will you be a able to contact me?" _I need you here._

He can't give me an answer. "I'm going to kiss your forehead," he says. There's a question in there somewhere, and I nod.

He presses his lips against me, for a long time, and I sniffle. "Can I stroke your hair?" He asks.

I manage a watery laugh. "You don't have to say that every time."

He curves his hand around my fringe slowly, and pulls the duvets closer around me. "I'm going to irritate you into forgiving me, Curt Mega."

There's a bleep as the monitor is switched back on, and I watch him out of the side of my eye.

"Here." He presses something into my palm, It's metal, and has a few jagged teeth. I turn it over in my hand, and instantly recognise it. Another copy of his apartment key.

I stare at him. "Owen-"

He curls my fingers around it. "Please," he says. "So you have somewhere to go when you get out..." He considers. "The option is there, I mean."

My heart flutters, and I realise, with a grimace, the world can hear it.

He gives me a sad sort of smile, and walks backwards out of the room. I hold my breath, and wait too long, until the door closes, until he passes the observation window, to release it. It hisses out in a forbidden whisper, two words I promised myself I wouldn't say.

"Please stay."

***

  
They keep me in the hospital for three days.

Sometimes I wake, heart pounding from nightmares, with a blare from the machines behind me. I ask them to turn it off, but there must be something they're not telling me, if they're worried about my heart suddenly stopping. One morning, a doctor comes running in.

"I thought you were dying!" She scolds. I apologise, but suggest, sweetly, that she unhooks me. She tuts, but obliges.

I dream about Owen. I dream about Owen getting hurt, I dream about Owen hurting me. _I dream about hurting Owen. _My eyes snap open.

There's not much to do except sleep, which is fine, because it's all I want to do- aside from the dreams. Those are difficult to avoid. Tonight is particularly rough. I bite my tongue, and I reach out, to where the key sits on the table beside me. Only half-aware of what I'm doing, I press the prongs into my fingertips, and, before I know it, I fondle it. So many times, Owen's apartment has been my refuge. I've been there before, when I was pissed at him, although this is different. My heart, without my permission, is quite heavy.

I pull the key off the table, and tuck it under the pillow beside me. I'm rest my hand above it, and drift back into sleep.

I make a decision.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tummy kiss inspired by-  
https://youtu.be/zbpn4amr-3w


	10. Interlude II/ You Came Home

Owen's apartment is exactly as I remember it. It's small, and infuriatingly neat for just _how _small it is, but my presence will soon change that. I shrug off my borrowed coat, and stash it on the rack, so as not to desecrate this sacred space. Not yet. Building mess is a ritual which requires careful preparation.

When I left the hospital, they informed me that someone had left me a change of clothes. At first, I assumed it must be Cynthia, until I saw, at the bottom of the pile, Owen's coat. Still, not everything of his is my size, and I reckon that Cynthia must've brought my shoes all the way from America.

I kick them off, but carefully arrange them beside the coat rack. Two pairs of Owen's, much smaller, sit beside it. I crouch on the floor, and tuck in the laces.

I step into the kitchen. There's a small stove, a kettle, a teapot, and- this is new- a coffee plunger. Owen would probably call it a cafetiére. I bite back a smirk as I recall a conversation we had, only seven months ago.

"_Owen. What __self-respecting_ _posho__ doesn't have a coffee pot?"_

_"Hmm? Oh. I use instant."_

_"_That _shit?"_

On the table, there's an envelope, addressed to me. I frown, and open it up. A letter and some English notes fall out.

_Curt-_

_Check the fridge. Should save you going shopping on the first night; I assume you'll be discombobulated from the hospital. Take it easy._  
_Will return within the week._

_\- Owen x_

_P._ _S_ _: I hope you're reading this before the milk expires._

The handwriting is slanted, but still legible. I trace my finger over the signature, then fold everything back up into the envelope. I dutifully go to check the fridge, and see a few eggs. Milk, ham, and, on top of the counter, bread- which saves me from worrying about breakfast tomorrow, too. Something stirs in my chest, and I close the fridge door gingerly.

I move through the house, and explore everything. I love snooping. No matter how old I get, I can't shake the childish instinct. _That's probably why I became a spy._ I smile at the thought. _My mother is nosy, too. Maybe that's where inherited it from. _I groan. I really should call her.

I enter the living room, and immediately press myself into a familiar alcove in the wall. Owen hates this gap. The bookshelf was here when he arrived, and a previous occupant had fixed it to the wall, biased to the left. _("It's __off-centre__. What idiot would arrange it __off-centre__?", Owen ranted.)_ I slide down the wall slowly, and hug my knees to my chest.

I walk my fingers along the shelf beside me. One of the books juts out slightly. It's hardback, and I pull it out. It's a large English dictionary, and I snort. I've never paid much attention to Owen's book collection before, but this is fairly expected. I lean forwards, and see that the bottom shelf is dedicated to the bulkier stuff- history and reference books- but further up, there appears to be a smattering of fiction. I'll check that out later. I rise to my feet, I find myself stumbling back into the the hallway between the living room and the kitchen.

The phone sits on a table, just opposite the bathroom. The only other room I haven't been into yet is Owen's room, and, for the moment, that feels too intimate. Hands shaking, I input the number, but I manage to hold it together for the operator. I wait as it connects, then wait another minute, where my mom seems to take her sweet time going to the phone.

  
"Hello?"

I twist the phone cord in my hands, and wind my fingers into the loops. "Mom. It's me-"

There's a squeal at the other end. "Curt! What happened to you?! Someone phoned last week and gave me the fright of my life; they said that you had gone missing in action, then they said you had arrived in England, but you were in intensive care, then-"

Shit. It didn't even occur to me to phone her when I woke up. "I'm fine, mom. I got out of hospital today." I don't mention that I've been awake for three days, and forgot to contact her.

Another squeal. "That's great news!"

"Um. Listen, I'm not coming home, mum. At least, not for a while." This _is _home, of sorts.

"What? But, Curt-"

"I don't..." I sigh. "I need more time to get my head straight. I'm staying at Owen's."

If she replies, I don't hear it, too busy planning my next words.

  
"Mom. I should get going now. It would be impolite to rack up a large phone bill." I wait for her reply, and say a firm goodbye, before putting the phone down.

My heart races again. I stumble back into the living room, and collapse on the sofa. Unsure how I can feel tired after sleeping for three days, I doze off.

***

  
Only a few hours have passed. The rattle of keys in the lock is the only warning I get, and suddenly, Owen is home.

He bursts into the living room before I get a chance to stand up, so I spend the next few moments sitting on the sofa, unsure if I'm still dreaming. We stare at each other in a kind of stunned silence, and I'm not sure who's more confused to see the other.

"I came to the hospital, but you weren't there. They said you'd been discharged and..." He runs his fingers through his hair, eyes shining. "I was worried you wouldn't be here."

I stare at him, like an apparition. "I thought you weren't going to come back."

"Me neither," he says, breathlessly, "But you were right. I'm not ready to go back into the field." He doesn't elaborate.

There's a numbness in my fingers, and I press them together. "I didn't _say _that, exactly-"

He crosses the floor, and wraps his arms around me, picking me up in a sweeping motion. He swings me round, once, before setting me down, and I slap his arm, sternly. "Owen..." I'm dizzy, but not just from the spinning. I embrace him. "You came home," I say, into his shirt collar.

"_You_ came home," he says. I smile.


	11. Recovery/ Just That

It's not unusual for me to spend long stretches in Owen's apartment. What is unusual is the urge to sleep in a separate bed. He's gracious enough not to look disappointed, and even offers to take the sofa, which I wave away. He's all set to challenge me on it, but I quickly put a stop to it. It turns out you can win any discussion by breaking down in tears.

Being here helps. There are good memories here. I first fell asleep on Owen's sofa, jetlagged, about four years ago.

"_Make some coffee," I demanded._

"_Where's that coffee?" I asked, when I woke up._

_ "That was three hours ago, love."_

_ "Well, make some more," I huffed, and passed out again._

***

_Day two_.

  
I think some part of me knows I need to be here, but the rest doesn't seem to have caught up yet. Bits of me are fractured, lying in the hospital, bleeding in the helicopter or the getaway car, and some part of me feels like it never left the compound.

It's hard. I'm not exactly scared of Owen, but I'm wary. One moment, I'm here, and I know I'm safe, the next I- I'm having flashbacks. _Itta__ wasn't the first man I'd killed, but the image is seared into my memory. It's intrinsically linked with another memory, and..._ I grip the back of the chair in front of me. I pull it out, sit down, and place my hands against the table. They tremble, and I press them, flat, onto the wooden surface.

_I try not to blame Owen._

The table is round, and four matching chairs are clustered around it. I still can't push my right hand too hard, because of my fingers, but the memory of breaking them isn't quite as bad as the rest, so I allow it in.

_I try not to blame Owen._

I have to be careful, opening the floodgates bit by bit, or I'll break down. When I talked to Cynthia, in the hospital, there was this _numbness, _but, now that I'm awake, it feels more real. _I remember the __**snap**_ _as my fingers broke, one at a time. I wonder if Owen would have broken more, and how long he thought we would stay in that bunker._ _How long he was __**willing**__ to stay in that bunker. Would he still be there if I hadn't provided an out? Would Alexi have killed him?_

Itta didn't die slowly enough. Alexi... Is complicated. Their deaths only leave a hollow feeling in my stomach. Owen was there, too. He understands. I think I need to talk about it with him. And yet...

I don't talk to Owen much that evening. He seems to understand.

***

_Day three._

  
My mother calls. Apparently "that nice lady" has been trying to get in contact with me. It takes me a moment to realise she means Cynthia.

"Don't tell her I'm here," I say. Right now, I can't stomach the thought of spy-work.

She tuts.

***

_Day Four__, morning._

Cynthia knows I'm here. Of course. She leaves a message with Owen. He says I'll get back to her.

"Owen," I hiss, "You should have lied to her."

He gives me a sad smile. "I'm sure she's just worried about you. Besides," he brushes a stray hair out of my face, and then stops himself. "She knows you've stayed here before," he finishes, quietly.

I close my eyes at the contact, and, for a moment, pretend that everything is fine between us. I turn away, not sure if I'm ready.

There must be some way to find out.

*

It's evening. I knock on Owen's bedroom door.

"Come in," he says, instantly.

I open it. He sits on his bed, book in hand, but his gaze is saved for me.

I take a deep breath, embarrassed by my request, but stare him down.

"I want to see you naked," I say.

There's a pause. He places a bookmark in the page, delicately, and stands up. Face neutral. "OK," he says. "Just that?"

The corner of my mouth twitches. "I'm not sure yet."

He hides a smirk, and obliges, maintaining a blank expression. He pulls his shirt off, then his pants. The rest follows. He does it so matter-o-factly that it's impossible to feel flustered. It's casual, experimental, exploratory, and he stands before me, completely unembarrassed.

I look away, suddenly shy, even though I'm fully clothed.

"Alright," I whisper, and exit the room. I lean against the door for a moment, and exhale. A smile plays on my lips.

*

I'm making toast in the kitchen, when I hear the soft patter of bare feet behind me. My movements get slower, and I get the impression that he's stalking me, like an easily-startled animal. I turn.

He halts, and smiles guiltily.

"Neither of us are quiet enough for this job," I say.

"I didn't mean to startle you," he says, and reaches for the kettle. I give him a small smile, and he moves past me to fill it with water.

"You didn't," I say, gently.

"Are you hungry?" He says, knowing that this is about the extent of my cooking ability.

"Before you offer to make me anything-"

"I'll teach you," he blurts, and I almost laugh.

"What?"

"Come on, it'll be fun. Your mother did you a disservice, never teaching you to cook."

"That's because _she_ can't, either," I say. "Can't tell one end of a kettle from the other."

"It only has one end, darling."

A stupid smile plays at my mouth, and I point to the spout. "Is it that?"

"Well done." He kisses my cheek. Realises what he's done. "Is that alright-?"

"Yes," I say, quickly. I squeeze his hand. It's brief, but he returns the gesture. It grounds me. He smiles at me, and lets go.

"Come on. Let me teach you," he tries again. "We both know you can't rely on nice women to cook for you."

"What about bad women?"

"Ah," he says. "That's your problem. Doesn't Cynthia keep poisoning you?"

I smile. She does, but she always gives me an antidote. Something stirs inside me. '_Just like Owen,'_ it thinks. _'He had to hurt you, but then he-'_ I shut it down. If this is the antidote, I have to let it work, first. I can't let that little voice interrupt.

My smile falters, but I try not to let it show. I peck him on the cheek. "Why don't you demonstrate? I'll try to pay attention," I promise, sitting down at the table.

"You'd better do more than try," he threatens, and grabs a saucepan.

I chuckle.


	12. Doesn't Scar Easily

There's a slight chill in the air this morning, and I pull the blankets up to my chin. The windows in the apartment are shut, but the smell of dew still tickles my nose. It crept through all of England in the night. Blankets a cocoon around me, I shuffle out into the corridor. There's a soft murmur to my left, and I turn to it. Owen is standing by the end table, telephone in hand, half-turned towards me. He spots me standing there, and smirks.

"... Hold on, I'll put him on." He extends the phone to me.

I sigh, and take it from him.

"Cynthia?"

"Curt!" A different voice says, and my heart lifts. "Barbara? What-?"

"Thank God! I've been so worried! The agency declared you MIA, then Cynthia said you were in England, and then, when she got back, she refused to say more, and-"

Guilt twists like a knife in my stomach, and I lean against the table. "I'm sorry. I didn't think she would be so icy about it. I thought she was lightening up."

Strange. I can walk around just fine- I had no trouble getting to Owen's apartment on foot- but I seem to be having trouble standing up for prolonged periods of time. Even though I've taken the weight off my left leg, my thigh twinges, and I sink to my knees. Owen crouches down, concern in his eyes, and I wave him away with a pained smile. I gesture to my leg, and his expression is replaced with guilt.

"... Are you still there?" Barb asks.

"Yeah," I say. "I'm sorry for the radio silence."

"It sounds like you couldn't help it," she says, gently.

"Yeah," I agree. "But I'm sorry for worrying you."

I don't really process her reply. I pass the phone back to Owen, and wait as they exchange pleasantries and laughter. When he finally puts the phone down, he turns around.

"I didn't know you were friends with Barb," I say, and he gives me a sly look.

"Oh, we... Keep in touch. Ever since the truth serum incident, she's kept a close eye on me."

I frown. "What-?" My face drains. "That was four years ago," I pause. "She's known about us this whole time?"

Us. A slip of the tongue. For some reason, I hope Owen doesn't notice it.

He pulls the blanket closed around my chest, and ties it in a loose knot. "You'd be surprised. Barb's not quite as straight as she appears- and quite observant," he adds. I blanch.

"But she- she was always flirting with me-"

"We had a running bet on as to whether you'd notice that," he says, then sighs theatrically. "I guess this means she wins."

I think back over some of Barb's more over-the-top gestures, and groan. "I should have realised."

He chuckles. "I'll let her know next time she calls," he says, and kisses my cheek. I place a hand to it and feign shock, as he helps me to my feet. He smiles, and cautiously lifts my hand to his lips. After a wordless exchange of glances, he places another kiss on the back of my palm.

"Now I'm really going to have to sit down," I whisper.

*

Cooking is a disaster.

"It's not that I've never tried it before. It's just that I'm terrible at it," I explain.

There are outraged splutters, and Owen appears from behind the plume of smoke. "You have... A reverse talent," he says, turning the gas off. "I'm pretty sure it takes practise to be quite that bad." He squints, suspiciously.

"What can I say? I'm a gifted man." I wrap a teatowel around the handle of the pan, and prepare to lift it.

"Ah-" he confiscates it, and passes me an oven glove. "Thank you," he says. "And no, that's not salvageable." He vetoes the burnt egg before I can suggest it.

I pout. "Well. At least now you know not to leave me unattended."

"I've never once been foolish enough to leave you unattended, my dear." There's a pause. "I can see I have my work cut out for me," he says, more gently. I square my shoulders, and jab at him with a wooden spoon.

"Why?" I say. "You're still trying to teach me to cook? Give up."

"Not yet," he says, and passes me a cookbook. "Now study."

I put on a big show of complaining, but I do as he says, and throw myself into cooking for the next few days. When I actually follow the instructions, it's not too difficult, although it's embarrassing to need a recipe for scrambled eggs.

"Why do you even have cookbooks?" I ask. "Aren't you a secret chef?"

He purses his lips. "My worst-kept secret." He worked in a restaurant before joining MI5. "Must be where I get my knife handling skills."

There's a moment before the mood changes where we seem to be on-pause, smiling, like a polaroid picture. Then, the moment shatters. The joke lands like shrapnel, and I'm pelted with the debris. Without a word, I move from the room, and blink rapidly.

Owen's apology is fast, but his voice sounds like it's coming from underwater. "Curt... come back... was insensitive... wasn't thinking."

I struggle forwards, as flashes of memory play at my vision. I thought I was getting better. I keep my breathing determinedly steady. "I just need a moment."

"I-"

"- I'm fine." I'm being ridiculous. "One moment," I squeeze the words out with faux confidence, but my voice shakes nonetheless.

His footsteps stop, and I shut myself into the living room. Before the door closes, I catch a glimpse of his face, wounded, perhaps more than mine.

***

Owen knocks on the door an hour later. I'm perched on the sofa, arms around my legs. Head tilted, to look at the wall. There's a clock there, and I've been watching it, zoning out.

"Are you alright?"

His voice is soft. So quiet I almost miss it. I rub my forehead, and manage a quiet "Yeah." There's a pause.

"I finished dinner, whenever you're ready."

I laugh awkwardly. "Promise I wasn't trying to get out of making it." I pick at a piece of lint on the corner of the blanket beside me.

"I know, love." His voice wobbles, and I move over robotically.

I open the door. It swings inwards, and Owen sways, arms braced in front of him where he'd been leaning on it. I catch him around the middle. "Steady," I breathe, and lean against his chest.

He sighs into the embrace. Strong arms wrap around me, and we stand, tangled together. A tremble. It takes me a moment to realise it's coming from him.

We hold each other mutely, and I press my forehead against his. There's a split second where I think he might crumble, but for one, impossible second, he remains upright. Then, his mouth quivers, and he folds to the floor with a strange elegance. I'm left standing uncertainly above him.

"I'm sorry," he whispers, head slouched against the wall.

"Don't be," I sigh, and crouch down to join him. "It's not your fault."

"No," he chokes. "For before. What I said-"

"It's forgotten."

"What I did, then."

I stiffen. "You've already apologised for that," I say, tightly. He doesn't drop it.

"No. I need to explain." 

"I-"

He catches my hand before I can turn away, and we share a glance. A brief, wordless battle.

"Fine." I give in.

We move back into the kitchen and begin to eat, and he unravels the story between pauses. Somehow, it makes it easier to have distractions. I ease up, and almost forget what we're talking about, until the subject comes back to Alexi.

"... I thought I could outsmart him. Hubris, I suppose."

I set my cutlery down, and search for something to do with my hands.

"Do you think it will scar?" I say, and lean across the table. I brush my fingers along the cut above his eyebrow, where the red mark lingers on, and he seems surprised at the contact- but pleasantly so.

"Perhaps," he says, and takes my hand gently in both of his own. "I'm not so sure."

There's a short silence, and then-

"What happened?" I realise I've never asked him about our escape. Was that really only two weeks ago? "You seemed to have everything under control, and then..."

He battles a weary look. I wonder if he's grown tired of the story, after relaying everything to MI5. And Cynthia. And the doctors.

"I don't know," he gives me a crooked grin, but there's sadness in his eyes. "It was clumsy of me. Like Alexi said-"

I wince as I realise I've managed to pull the subject back round to that.

"- I blew your cover," I whisper.

"No," he strokes my fingers. "Not that. I... I suppose he must have been telling the truth, that he suspected me all along. He was waiting for the right moment to deal with me. If you hadn't found me-" He exhales, and continues quietly. "I would be dead."

I swear I can hear my own heartbeat. I swallow, and place my fingers against his wrist.

"So they already knew," I say, flatly. "It was all for nothing."

He shakes his head, and guides my fingers to trace the back of his hand- the old scar. He gazes at it like a map.

"Do you remember France, a few years back?"

I nod. There are three different scars on Owen's body from that mission. "My suturing skills need work." I smile, sheepishly.

He tuts. "We thought it was unusual that the bunker was so heavily guarded," he says, and his voice takes on an interesting tone.

My eyes widen. "You don't think-?"

He nods. "If Chimera was as big as Alexi claimed, we never stood a chance."

I sit back in my chair as the information hits me. "Shit." There's a strong chance Alexi already knew at least one of us. All the world's secret's... He wasn't kidding. "Does Cynthia know about this?"

He nods. "She's been working on dismantling Chimera from the moment we touched down in England- I didn't tell you sooner," he amends, seeing my face- "Because Cynthia thought it would interrupt your healing process. I'm only telling you now because I doubt you have any desire to go back in the field."

I consider. "I thought I wanted to leave," I say. Voicing it feels icy cold. "I didn't know if I wanted to do spy work ever again." I frown, and my free hand taps against the side of my plate. "I thought the agency had sent me in there blind, and they did, to some extent. But Chimera..." Something wells up inside me. Anger I didn't know I had. "Perhaps I'm not cut out for this," I groan, and rest my head on the table.

"You are," Owen says. "But only if you want to be."

I lift my head. "You think I should quit?"

"Do you want to?" He caresses my face, almost like he's not aware of the motion, and freezes. "Is that OK-?"

"It's fine," I whisper. I close my eyes, and he rubs small circles against my cheek. "I'm not sure," I exhale, a belated answer to his question, and he hums in response. His fingertips are whisper-soft, but cause a wave of sensation. I sigh, raise my chin, and he laughs breathily. He drops my hand, and strokes my jaw and neck- soft enough that it doesn't tickle. I bite back a moan, and shuffle closer. One hand finds my shoulder, and I settle on his lap. He kneads the small of my back, and I rest my head against his chest as he cradles me.

"This is nice," I murmur, and rest my hand against his chest. He kisses the top of my head, and I almost overbalance.

"Come on," he says, standing up.

"Hm?" I say, sleepily. He pulls me into a bridal lift, and carries me across the hall. I assume it must be to the living room, but when he sets me down, it's in his bed. I make some brief, half-lucid noise, and he strokes my hair.

My eyes flutter open. "Did you drug me?" I grunt, and he chuckles softly.

"On my honor, love; I think you're just tired."

"You don't have... Any honor," I smile, and close my eyes again.

I'm vaguely aware of him watching over me, but soon fall into a deep, restful sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not everyone who has gone through a traumatic experience will develop PTSD, but it's common to experience many of the symptoms. This is called "acute stress reaction," but can begin to fade within 2-3 weeks of the trauma occurring. However, 1 in 3 people do begin to suffer from PTSD, which makes it much more common than people believe.
> 
> If the experiences of the characters in this story resonate with you, or you suspect you may have acute or post-traumatic stress, more information can be found here:
> 
> https://www.rcpsych.ac.uk/mental-health/problems-disorders/post-traumatic-stress-disorder
> 
> This resource is well worth the read.
> 
> Help can also be found at the links below.
> 
> https://www.psychguides.com/guides/ptsd-hotline/  
http://www.assisttraumacare.org.uk/  
https://www.ptsduk.org/  
http://www.anxietyuk.org.uk/  
https://www.freedomfromtorture.org/


	13. What A Chimera Is

Warmth. Heat. I curl up, and nestle into the pillow. _Owen. _Of _course_ the bed smells of Owen; it's Owen's house.

My eyes snap open as I remember the events of last night. _I'm in Owen's bed. _I roll over, and a wash of conflicting emotions sway me about like the sea. Aside from me, the bed is empty.

I hurry from the room.

"Owen?" I say, as I open the living room door. He's perched on the sofa, reading a book. The blankets have been put away, but it's obvious he slept there.

"Curt," he smiles, and closes the book. "I thought it best to leave you sleeping."

I flush slightly. "I never meant to cart you out of your own bed," I say.

"I know. But I didn't want you to wake up with me there and panic," he says. His hands twitch against the book cover, which is deep red. It's a hardback, and quite thick.

My heart stirs. "Oh."

"Besides, I put you there. You didn't cart me out of anything," he smiles.

I exhale, and tug at some imaginary fluff on my shirt sleeve. "Well, if I fall asleep on your bed again..." I chew my lip. "I don't mind if-" I notice the rise of his eyebrows, as he fights to keep a smirk off his face. "I'd like you to stay," I say, firmly.

He steeples his fingers, and watches me. "Do you plan on falling asleep in my bed again anytime soon?"

I smile, and look at the floor. "Perhaps. It was the best sleep I've had in ages." Even before the bunker. I suspect it has less to do with the comfortable mattress, and more to do with the fact that I knew, at least when I fell asleep, that Owen was watching over me. I look up. "Is that a thesaurus?" I demand, and his eyes widen with sudden guiltiness.

"Indeed," he says, and I pad towards him.

"What were you looking up?"

He smiles, and opens it somewhere near the beginning.

C. Ch.

It doesn't take me long to find it.

**Chimera (noun)** ****

** chimera**; plural noun: **chimeras**; noun: **chimaera**; plural noun: **chimaeras**

1\. (in Greek mythology) a fire-breathing female monster with a lion's head, a goat's body, anda serpent's tail.**  
**

2\. A thing which is hoped for but is illusory or impossible to achieve. "The economic system you try to defend is a chimera."

There are other definitions under it- mainly about biology terms, but it's fairly obvious which one Owen was looking at.

"What does that mean?" I scowl, and he chuckles softly. He closes the thesaurus, and takes my hand.

"It means we'll win," he smiles.

I squeeze his hand, and say nothing.


	14. What Happens When You Get Well

Days pass. However long it has been since the weather took a turn, however long it was since the bunker, I stop counting. The constant feeling of being on-guard begins to lessen. My cooking, Owen insists, continues to improve- though I'm not sure if I believe him, because I have taste buds.

People keep calling. Cynthia, my mother, Barbara. Gradually, people stop asking when I will return home, and I stop wondering. Slowly, inevitably, everyone begins to understand, as Owen must, that I live here now.

Just kidding.

"When are you coming back to America?" My mother asks.

"When are you coming back to _work?" _Cynthia snaps, back to her old self.

"You know, Owen's handler managed to go four months without any information from him," I say. I twirl the cord around my finger as I talk.

"That's because he was _working for them at the time," _Cynthia exhales noisily down the receiver. "You're not on a mission, you don't get that privilege."

"Did you just try to blow smoke at me down the phone-?"

"Don't change the subject, Mega. You know I like to keep a close eye on you; I never know what you could be doing."

I sigh. "It's only been..." I try to concentrate. "A few weeks, Cynthia," I say gently. "The doctors say-"

"Ha! _English_ doctors. What do the Brits know? Can you walk, at least?"

"Yes, but-"  
  
"-I could put you on desk duty," she muses. I can't tell if she's teasing me or not, but I groan.

"You know I've never been good at that. Besides," I lower my voice, and cast a glance at Owen's closed bedroom door. "I'd like to stay here for a while." I think about my discussion with Owen.

"_For a while,"_ she huffs, and I can tell she's attempting a piercing glare down the line. "Fine. Just remember, we still want you back."

"If I want to go back," I murmur, before I can stop myself.

There's stunned silence on the end of the receiver. When Cynthia does talk, it's preceeded with a long sniff.

"That last mission went more than a little pear shaped, Mega. What you _should_ want is to get back in the field and prove your worth." With that, there's a click, and the long, drawn-out burr of an empty line.

My lungs do a somersault, and I continue clutching the phone long after she's disconnected.

*

"She didn't mean it," Owen says, as he sets two mugs down on the table. "She's probably just upset."

"What's there to be upset about? It's not like she'd be losing a good agent," I grunt, as I reach for my mug.

"Careful," Owen stills my hands. "It's scalding."

I stare at him, and he squirms under my gaze for a moment. "No," I snort, "It's reassuring to hear her back to normal. I couldn't bear her being so nice to me- it made me feel like I was fragile." On that note, I draw the mug towards me, ignoring the handle, and he gives me a weak smile.

"Alright. I'll stop mollycoddling you."

"Good."

"She's probably just worried that she's losing you. Because you _are_ a good agent-"

I nudge him under the table with my foot, which sparks a footsie battle for dominance.

*

"Isn't it obvious?" Barb cackles. "Just kiss him."

I flush. "No, no, no. We are _not _discussing my love life." She seems to latch onto the word _love__, _because she awws.

"I didn't realise you were so romantic, Curt."

"Yeah, well-" I stop myself. "I feel... At home here, I guess." And I do.

I hear her breath rattle as she inhales, and I brace myself.

"You need to tell Cynthia you're quitting," she says.

A hiccough of laughter escapes me. "Are there no holidays in this job? Am I not allowed to simply _be ill?"_

"Sure, Curt. But what happens when you get well?"

The implication isn't lost on me, but I ignore it. "I'm offended, doll- won't you miss me?"

"Of course I will," she sighs, "But wouldn't you miss Owen?"

I hesitate. The truth is, we've never really spent this much time together before. We've always wanted to, but-

"I feel like I need an excuse," I say.

"You've got one," she says confidently. "Like you said; you're still recovering. Cynthia won't really be angry, she'll act like it at first, but-"

"No, not that." I inhale slowly. _"To see Owen,"_ I clarify.

There's silence on the other end of the line.

"What do you mean?" She says, quietly.

I slide down the wall I was previously leaning against. "You know what I mean," I say, evasively. "When we're on missions it's... Different."

I can feel her glaring at me down the phone. "Curt-"

"How could either of us adapt to civilian life?" I blurt. "I can't just let him go on missions on his own, and I can't ask him to quit-"

"_Curt-"_

"- Our relationship is illegal. They keep tabs on retired agents for the rest of their lives. How long could we keep it secret outside the service? A long time ago, I had to resign myself to the fact that being with Owen required sacrifice. And I'm okay with that. Really." I swallow, dryly. "Me, I can just retire, but Owen- he's not the type of agent that they'll just let go."

There's a long pause as Barb thinks it over. "You need to talk to him about this. _And_ Cynthia," she says, sternly.

I purse my lips. "I can't trust Cynthia with this."

There's a pause. "Perhaps she already knows."

I frown. "How many people has Owen told about us?!" I say, horrified.

She chuckles. "Not him. Not me, either," she says, quickly, "But I think she's suspected for a long while. Cynthia won't narc on you."

"You don't know that."

"Curt," she hisses. "You can trust her."

"How do you know?"

There's a pause. Barb exhales noisily.

"Because she's my partner."


	15. War Of The Worlds

Owen sits in the living room, on the armchair opposite me. He appears to be reading studiously, but it's been a while since he's turned a page. I sigh.

"I know you overheard my conversation with Barb," I say.

He looks up slowly, and meets my eyes. "Not all of it," he says. "I didn't know it was Barb." He looks down again. I almost laugh. "I didn't mean to eavesdrop," he apologises, as he pinches the bridge of his nose.

"I know." I fight to keep the smile off my face as he closes the book. "Any good?" I ask.

He shrugs. "It's 'The Island Of Doctor Moreau', by H.G Wells. Faster than his other books," he smiles sheepishly, "But not gentle."

"We'll pretend that I'm well-read for a moment," I say, with a grim smile. "I think I've read 'The Time Machine'."

He raises an eyebrow. "I had you pegged as more of a 'War Of The Worlds' kind of man. Although, it's actually two books, so I can see why it wouldn't appeal."

"Cheek." I throw a cushion at him, and he dodges it lazily. His hands twitch around the cushion behind him, but it's clear he doesn't intend to retaliate. I smirk, and nod to Moreau. "What's it about?"

"Vivisection, largely," he says, with distaste. "Caused quite a stir at the time; the book was largely written in protest of it. Unfortunately, the plot is largely secondary to that."

I frown. "Vivi-? Dissection?"

"Similar," he says, "Except done on live subjects. At least, that was the Victorian understanding of the term."

A stab of nausea. I blanch, and my abdomen actually twitches.

"It's alright," he says, as he rises from his seat. His voice is suddenly calmer. "It's not as common now, and it was largely done on animals." Animals. Owen is talking to me like a scared animal. I breathe through it, and the feeling passes. He keeps talking as he moves towards me, and makes eye contact. A question. I nod mutely, and he moves to my side, then kisses the top of my head firmly. "I shouldn't have mentioned it."

I shake my head, which breaks the contact. "It's fine," I say, and place a hand against my stomach, as if to soothe it. "It's passed."

He watches me for a moment, and his lip quivers. He makes the barest effort to contain his rant, but it spills out of him. "We used to treat animals even more terribly than we do now-"

I smile weakly. As long as I've known him, Owen has been a vegetarian- or, as he calls it, a 'reluctant meat eater'. (The innuendo was noted at the time.) A few times, on a mission, he's been forced to consume meat to maintain his cover at dinner parties, but he's always complained about it, at length, afterwards. I reach out an arm, and wrestle him onto the sofa before he can really get into it. He'd be talking for hours.

"So. Barbara," I say.

"Barbara," he repeats, sighing as he melts into the seat beside me. He squeezes my hand, once, then lets go.

"She thinks I should quit the agency," I say. "But-"

"You feel you need an excuse," he murmurs, and twists his hands together on his lap. "I heard that much."

I bite my lip. "I'm not sure she understood. But you do," I say. I raise my eyes to meet his, a silent challenge, which he accepts.

He gives me a severe, stern look. "I understand," he says, "But I don't agree."

I give him a strange look. "What do you think I'm talking about?"

"Self harm, in a manner," he says. He holds up a hand. "Not like that."

"Like what?"

He frowns, and searches for the words. "Staying with the agency, Curt, it's..." His eyes light up. "Vivisection."

I clench my fist. "I'm not sure I follow."

"You don't enjoy it," he says. "It's unnecessary torture done on a live subject."

I grunt. "I can think of millions of Americans who don't enjoy their jobs, Owen. I shouldn't have to be any different."

He shakes his head. "Curtis."

"Do you enjoy it?" I say, quickly.

"I-" he sets his jaw. "It's like you said."

"They won't let you go?"

He inclines his head. "I can't be sure."

"But they gave you time off," I say, voice hopeful. Although so did Cynthia, and she wants me back.

I look down at my lap. Owen rubs his thumbs across each other with some determination, an action he once described as 'twiddling my thumbs'. I watch, mesmerised by the unusual dance.

"Just because I can't quit, doesn't mean you shouldn't," he says, quietly. I shake my head.

"I'm staying."

"Why? To prove you're not incompetent?"

I clench my fists. "You said you didn't think I was."

"No, but you're still thinking about what Cynthia said," he says, as he points at me. "And what you said to Barbara..." He inhales. "I need to apologise; because it's my fault."

I frown. "What is?"

"Years ago, when we started courting-" as usual, I grimace, and he allows himself a small smile at my reaction to the word. "- I told you there was nothing more important to me than MI5."

My face hardens. "I remember." I move to pull my hands away, but he squeezes them.

"I was wrong," he says. I look up, hopefully, as he meets my gaze with a burning intensity. "I knew, and I've always known, that I-"

He stops. Deep brown eyes seek permission, and I give him the smallest of nods. You can say it.

It's nothing we haven't said before, but it's not nothing.

Four months.

He closes his eyes, and a smile tugs at his mouth. Like it's on automatic.

"I love you. And there's nothing in this world that's more important. Nothing that can stop me protecting you."

I frown.

His hands twitch in mine, and he opens his eyes again. I see the grief there. The grief, I think, reflected there. I blink, try to communicate I'm OK, but there's a lump in my throat. I don't trust myself to speak.

"I would do anything for you. If you asked me to, I would leave MI5 for you. I would leave England for you."

I smile. "You mean run away?" He nods, and I smirk. "Then maybe I can protect you," I say, folding my hands over his, with a pointed look.

He rolls his eyes. "I didn't mean-" his eyes twinkle. "I didn't mean to patronise you," he says.

"I know you can't help it; it's the Britishness."

He purses his lips and says nothing. We sit together quietly, and I gradually creep closer to him, closer and closer, until my mouth's on his ear.

"You'd do anything for me?" I ask.

He shivers, and nods.

"I have one request," I breathe.

"Name it," he whispers, pushing his forehead against mine. Nose to bony nose, jaw to crooked jaw. A pair of thin lips, currently suspended somewhere between disbelief and hope. And then, because he can't help himself, they twitch into a smirk. The smug bastard knows, of course he does. I must go cross-eyed, but I watch those lips, familiar yet alien, and long to press against them.

But we're trying this new thing now, this thing where we ask each other what we want, and, despite all we've done to each other, despite all we've been though, despite the fact that we've done it a thousand times before, I know that this kiss will change everything between us. There won't be a going back, not really- nor will there be a new beginning. There'll just be a continuation of what was, different yet... The same.

I smile, and try to exhale some of the tension in my shoulders. My breath falls against his cheek, and for a moment I revel in the proximity, the closeness, the slope of his imperfect jaw. The length and detail of a single eyelash.

"Kiss me," I breathe, so near to him that the sound has barely passed between us before he closes the gap, and brushes his mouth with mine. His lips are soft, firm and warm, and a noise rises up in my throat. I press back, the barest implication of a kiss, and he moves more hungrily against me.

I close my eyes.

"Curt..."

I drown the sound, and place my hands on either side of his arms. He holds me back, firm, and continues the kiss. I grunt, and tilt my head to the left- presumably, as he does the same thing.

Breathy laughter as our noses bump, and he grins against me. His hands slide to my waist, and I draw my knees against his chest, which creates distance between us. He begins to pull away, but I place a hand on the back of his head, and move my legs apart. Within moments, I'm straddling him at the waist, which frees my other hand to explore his face as I press deeper into the kiss. I ply my tongue against his lips until he parts them, and then they meet, briefly, in the middle.

We remain like that for a long time, kissing like teenagers, as I explore the inside of his mouth, the curve of his cheek, and it feels so right, so warm. This, only this, is exactly where I'm supposed to be, not with the agency, not in America, but wherever Owen is.

Slowly, oh so slowly, it all begins to be alright.


	16. Epilogue: Alcove

The rumors of England's lack of sunlight are greatly exaggerated.

The rays stain the glass, painting it white and yellow, which make it look impossibly warm, despite evidence to the contrary. My arms are cold, but not enough to be uncomfortable. Still, as I sit beside the window, I know there must be a draught somewhere, yet I don't move away from it. I take a moment to truly appreciate the chill, resting my feet at one corner of the alcove, and brace my back against the other. In America, you'd rarely get this cold indoors. Not in a government-owned building, anyway. Although the nights can get colder in the USA, it's usually much warmer inside; perhaps because many of our buildings were built after the invention of central heating.

On the outside, the MI5 training building looks completely dilapidated. The idea was that this would keep prying eyes away, but the true genius in the plan lies in this: it looks dilapidated on the inside, too. A cunning trick, and the building plays its part well. I rest my head back against the wall, and the ancient stone pushes against me.

A voice startles me.

"Why do you always sit there?"

I drop the book I was pretending to read, and look up. Owen. "It's more comfortable than the chairs," I say, and sit up. I search the floor for the fallen cover- The Invisible Man. Another one by H.G Wells.

"I've never had a problem with them," Owen says quietly, as we both reach for the book. His hand brushes mine, and he curls his lip, eyebrow raised a fraction.

"And yet you're not sitting," I comment, as I take the book from him. I stand in one swift motion, and watch him with hungry eyes.

"How was the lecture?" I ask, in a soft voice. "Remind me what you teach, again- Introduction To Espionage?"

His eyes twinkle down at me with suppressed humour, and he touches my shoulder briefly. "Same as usual."

Here, in the library, we can pretend that the silence signs are the only reason we have for whispering.

I glance at the heavy volume in my hands. Since our conversation in Owen's apartment over a year ago, I've expanded my knowledge of Wells, and, for whatever reason, this is my favourite so far.

"Do you think they're gay?" I say, after a moment, as I place the book back on the shelf.

"Oh, the invisible man is, for sure," Owen says, idly. "It's a shame he's so insufferable."

"Really?" I say, genuinely surprised. "I know he's meant to be a bit of an anti-hero, but I like him. Posh, ex-aristocrat, hates the company of other people... I don't know; it sounds familiar," I whisper, as I lean towards him.

He casts a glance at the aisle to the right of us, examining the gaps between the books, and my breath catches. Then, he pulls me flush against his chest.  
  
We can't be too careful. We're in the business of teaching people how to spy, after all.

"If there was an invisible man right here, what secrets would he see?", I whisper in his ear, as if that were the only reason for our proximity. Then, I press my lips against his, and feel his reassuring warmth. He parts his lips, fingers tracing my jaw, and smiles as he pulls away.

"Then he would have to be like us, to keep such secrets safe," Owen whispers, and kisses me again. I exhale, and push back, for as long and as hard as he'll let me. Then, we break apart.

There will be more when we get home, but this, for now, is enough.

Still, if anyone were watching, perhaps they'd understand. We're the professors who took out Chimera. The prime duty of espionage is to protect sensitive information, or die- or kill- trying.

And we're allowed our secrets, too.


End file.
